So today is a bank holiday, which means no work for us! Heehee. Don’t worry, we don’t have Labor Day, so it evens out. Anyway, we decided this morning to spend our day in Covent Garden, because neither of us had managed our way there just yet. As indicated in the title, Covent Garden is no garden whatsoever. We didn’t really expect it to be one, though, because they call everything Garden here. Heck, half the streets here are Something Garden, rather than Something Street. I don’t know who they think they’re fooling, but it ain’t THIS yank, that’s for sure.

Anyway, Covent Garden, while not a garden per se, is indeed a very nice shopping district. We walked around for hours - found a nice sandwich, walked around for hours, found a muffin and some fro yo, and then wandered our way home. We somehow managed to come home empty-handed, though. I think I’ll have to go back and pick up a few items sometime soon. For example, I tried on some shoes today , and I think I need to go back for those.

Aside from the shops, Covent Garden features lots of those street performers who stand still. We had them in New York, too. Except there, they were Statues of Liberty and tin men, and here they’re palace guards and chimney sweep-looking types. Somehow the idea of watching someone stand extraordinarily still for long periods of time has never particularly intrigued me. Apparently I’m the only one who finds that an overwhelmingly unentertaining form of entertainment, though, because each of these folks had quite the crowd around them. To each his own, I suppose. I, for example, thoroughly enjoyed the fella singing show tunes on the steps. Andy liked the card trick guys. Something for everyone! I highly recommend it. Especially the frozen yogurt at Muffinski’s muffin shop. They put REAL berries in there!!

Today, Andy and I went to the Notting Hill Carnival. It’s a big, noisy celebration of Caribbean music and food, and we had a lovely time.

Leading up to the carnival, we had a few warnings. “Don’t go on Monday - it’s gang day,” “Don’t bring anything you don’t want stolen,” and the like. We packed lightly and decided that the daytime would probably be ok and that perhaps these experiences happened at night.

We were right. When we arrived, the streets were blocked off and there were all sorts of people wandering about, but wasn’t mobbed, by any means. We stumbled quickly along the parade, which featured people of all ages in crazy, coloUrful costumes, as one might expect. It also, however, featured exTREMEly loud music. Essentially, every group in the parade danced behind an 18-wheeler with the sides and/or back open, loaded to the gills with enormo speakers, a DJ or two, and blaring Caribbean music.

It was awesome.

We went home to regroup, ditch the camera, and for me to change into something with pockets (keys in the bra are not exactly comfortable), and we went back for dinner and some more exploring. We acquired some jerk chicken, rice & beans, and fried plantains, all of which were delicious, and we weaved our way through the parties for another two hours or so. Oh that’s what I forgot to mention - aside from the parade, the carnival consists of streets lined with food stands and the occasional (well about 30 in total) big party. Stage with a DJ or two and lots of enormo speakers and people dancing in the streets. Makes for quite a tricky saunter through the carnival!

Also of note are the enormous heaps of trash everywhere. EVerywhere. When we finished with our chicken and whatnot, we would have loved to find a bin for the rubbish, but since London’s answer to terrorism is to seek out and eliminate all trash receptacles, we ended up searching out a big heap of rubbish to add it to. When in London. . .

In summary, we feel glad that we went to check out the festival, as it is quite an important London experience (an ironically Caribbean London experience, but still), and we did have a lovely time, and of we go back next year, we’ll know to dress for a party and/or a parade, because you just never know when you’ll find yourself in one.

Andy and I learned something about the English and their understanding of American culture. As much as folks tend to push back against the perceived bullishness of the land of the free and its contemporary symbols (i.e. McDonalds, Starbucks, Jerry Springer), they have made a noble effort to absorb one of the most quintessentially American cultural staples - the base system. That would be the bases as they represent something other than baseball. Eh hem.

No joke. First base = smooching, second base and third base I don’t want to get into, but it’s the same as it was back home. BUT, they slipped a bit with the finale. That’s right, folks - the all-imporant “home” is, at least according to our one unchecked source, FOURTH base. Oh dear oh dear. To be fair, if there were a similar cricket analogy, I’m sure I would mess it up far more royally than that, and also, 4th generally does come after 3rd, so you can’t really blame them, but I suppose it’s just that the “home” part is kind of what makes the whole analogy work, if you ask me.

A few other things.
1. While we were waiting on the tube platform the other day, the announcer came on (remember the accent) and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, a reminder that smoking is prohibited on all train platforms. If you are smoking, please distinguish your cigarette at this time.” That’s right, distinguish. “I hereby declare this cigarette SIR cigarette of Train Platformia.”

2. We were watching the cricket today - It’s STILL the Ashes, in case you’re curious. Fourth test, day 3. Anyway, one of the dudes left the match limping, and the announcers kept saying, “Once again, Jones has left the match due to some discomfort in his left ankle.” What’s funny about this is that Andy and I have often thought about how lazy the cricket players are compared to baseball players. I can’t really blame them, since they have to stand out there all damn day for a month, but still. Discomfort?! HA! Then later, he got an upgrade. He went to hospital (they don’t say to THE hospital here) and they said he had a “problem” with the ankle. OK now we’re talking. Geeze.

3. The Daily Show is COMING TO ENGLAND!!! Not until October, but I’m so excited. SO excited.

So today, after work, I had my hair cut. As usual, I gave the stylist a long list of things I don’t like. I don’t like when there are so many layers that the bottom of my hair gets thin and sticks to my neck and I have a mullet. I don’t like anything asymmetrical or too trendy. I REALLY don’t like when they try to “frame my face.” It makes me look about seven years old.

Then the list of what I do want. Something fun and flippy - about yea long, kinda choppy, graduated bangs about cheek length, bla bla bla, here’s a PICTURE of what I want.

Time out - they just showed a wiener on TV. It’s 9:15 and it was on the BBC. WHAT the. . . . ?

So then he cuts it and it’s probably fine, but he styles it all wrong so that I feel like a lamppost. Here’s my hair: ( ). Yup, just like that. Then if you put my body below it - my body looks like this: | See? Lamppost. Except without the bald spot in the middle. Anyway, NOT what I wanted. So then he’s all, “Do you like it?” and I’m all, “Well, it’s hard to tell. I would never style it like this. I want it to be. . . . (which I already told him throughout the haircut)” So he says he had to style it that way so that he could see it properly and advises me to go home and style it myself and come back if I still don’t like it. OK fine.

Good news is I like it better now that I’m home - tomorrow I’ll do it my way and check it out further - I think it will work.

The point of this story is that I cried like a big baby on my walk home, and then I realized that I cry every time I get my haircut. Unless it’s just a trim, in which case I feel bored and frustrated with myself for not getting something better. So poor Andy had to deal with teary wifey when I got back, but then we started laughing because I always cry when I get my haircut. And really, does it REALLY matter? It almost always grows back. Even more, I almost always love it once I do it myself. Ahh. . . the trials and tribulations of being a trendsetter.

I’ll post pictures if I like it after I do it myself.

Andy and I have been living in our neighborhood for almost 3 months now. Every day, we walk down the high street to the tube, and we have come to know some familiar faces and places. For example, the guy in the coffee shop the other night asked me if I go running in the mornings. OK, so maybe that’s a bit creepy, but you see what I mean.

Anyway, one of the buildings we pass is a large-ish apartment building with a little courtyard out front, and shortly after we moved here, we saw that they were having a little yard sale. Nothing fancy - just your usual - records, random extension cords and plugs, maybe some books or a coffee table. One of those yard sales that might be worth looking at if you REALLY don’t have much to do that day.

Then they had a yard sale another day.

Then the cops came once, but we don’t know why - we just saw them there. No yard sale that afternoon. And now it has reached the point that, while we never know for certain whether or not the yard sale will be open on a given day, we know for very certain that it will be open again VERY soon. We have seen the yard sale in full swing at 11:00 at night as the pubs were closing, and we have seen the yard sale kicking at 8:15 in the morning on our way in to work. Although that time there wasn’t anyone watching the stuff, so maybe it was leftover yard sale from the night before? Who knows.

I have so many questions about the 24-7 yard sale. First of all, who’s STUFF is all of this? Secondly, who gets the profits? Is this a communal yard sale, or are these just all sorts of different people who live in that building having separate yard sales ALL THE TIME?! Can it possibly be legal to have a CONSTANT yard sale? At what point does it become an outdoor junk store? (Hey, that should be the name of it – it rhymes) When do they have to apply for a business permit? Seriously how can they POSSIBLY still have stuff to get rid of? It’s just insane.

So anyway, if anyone needs any random junk, let us know - I think they had some candle holders the other day, and sometimes they have travel adaptors. . . I could ask about other stuff if they don’t seem to have what you’re looking for. I mean maybe they could run in and have a look around in their giNORmous storage space to see if anyone has put said item up for sale in tomorrow’s yard sale. I don’t really know how it works, but ya never know.

Also, you folks have not been so good thus far at thinking of names for our flat. All except Whitey, who I’m guessing by his suggestion “You Can Go Home Again” is probably still trying to convince me to come and take my old job back. Down with ulterior motives! We were thinking along the lines of “McNeil Manor.” We don’t think the neighbors would mind.

This weekend, Andy and I went to visit my Aunt Sue and cousins Ben and Katie. I hadn’t seen Sue or Katie since our wedding, I hadn’t seen Ben in about six years, and I had never met Ben’s girlfriend, Laura, or the family dog, Luca. We had such a wonderful time visiting, exploring, and walking Luca - and I don’t think I did anything that will get us kicked out of the family, so all things considered, it was a raving success.

Luca is an enormous Rhodesian Ridgeback. He has big floppy ears and expressive eyes, and he couldn’t be more gentle. He almost made me want to get a dog. We took him on a long walk through the countryside, and he loved it! He walked along with us, occasionally bounding off after a rabbit or a pheasant. Once he took off after some pheasants, but they flew away, and when he came back, he looked disappointed that he found some o’ dem flying rabbits again. We weren’t sure if he would play fetch or not, so I threw a stick for him. He looked excited that I was throwing the stick, but after I threw it, he looked at me as if to say, “What do you think I am, a lab?” and then kept on walking. Who knew it would be so beneath him?

Aside from walking Luca, we went on a tour of the area. Sue lives close to the town in which my parents met, dated, and got married, and today she took us on a tour of all of the various homes they lived in, including Wonersh Hollow, where Grandpa lived until about 10 years ago. I went there once as a 9-year-old and once as a 12-year-old, so I do remember going on daring expeditions of the property with Dad and the sibs. Anyway, we stopped by there to have a gander, and the man who lives there now was outside! I got over my initial shyness (with a little encouragement from Andy) and decided to go talk to him. He was interested to hear about the family and the history of the house, he let us take a peak at the garden, and he even thanked us for coming by. All in all, such a nice little journey.

By the way, I think we should start naming our houses in America. Actually, we don’t have a name for our current place. That’s it, Andy and I are officially brainstorming what we should name our flat. We’re open to suggestions, but keep it clean . . .

Pictures of our trip to Guildford.

So a few posts ago I wrote about Lost and how it was described to me as “SOOOoooooo American.” It confused me a bit at the time, because I felt like I had a reasonably good sense of what one would consider to be typically American, and Lost wasn’t really so much it.

Anyway, the next day, I heard some folks in the PR department (who sit behind me) talking about Lost and how it is SOOOooooo American. These were completely different people to those who had been discussing it earlier, by the way. So I decided this was my opportunity, and I asked them why. “Why? What is it that makes it so American?” And for those of you who have been waiting with baited breath, the following is the PR department’s definition of what makes something quintessentially American.

1. It is very glossy and over-produced
2. Everyone is so unnaturally good-looking

Well all I have to say to that is Why THANK you VEERRRRRY much!
And also, now that you mention it, we are a damn fine-looking people.

OK, so maybe they then went on about how if it were done in Britain, it would have been more realistic, and maybe there was something about a little phoney and forced and whatnot, but all I have to say about that is blah blah blah ok whatever. Point is - good looking = American. Sweet.

Yesterday, Andy and I went to the Imperial War Museum. It contains detailed histories of Britain’s involvement in various wars, with a special focus on World War 1 and World War 2. The main hall shows off a selection of tanks, guns, and transport vehicles, and as we perused the objects there, we began to notice a theme. For example, the Sherman Tank, according to the IWM, was American in design, sure, but it’s KNOWN by its BRITISH name, Sherman. Hmmm. . .

Then we went into the special forces section. The display showed off various relics from the lives and work of Britain’s intelligence agencies and various other spy-type organiSations. I enjoyed it thoroughly, but again, I noticed a bit of a theme. The enigma machine, which the German forces used to encode and decode secret messages, appeared over and over again in this section, and always with a note about how the Germans invented this complicated machine, thinking it would be impossible to crack, and VOILA! Guess who cracked it? Yup, the Brits.

The best part, though, was the section on D-Day. On the whole, highly intriguing and informative. The allied forces invaded 5 beaches that day - 2 by Americans (Utah Beach, Omaha Beach), 3 by Brits and Canadians (Gold, Juno, and Sword Beaches). The exhibit was separated by Beach, and it went something like this: On Utah beach, the Americans didn’t lose too many people - that’s because they landed in the wrong place and it wasn’t heavily guarded. On Omaha beach, we’ll give you the fact that the Americans lost tons of people and that stinks, but after that, they waged a DARING assault on German embankments, only to find them EMPTY - silly fools. Then the Brits landed, and sure we might not have lost very many people, but THAT’S because we did SUCH a good job bombing it beforehand. I am not kidding. Maybe I’m exaggerating a smidge, but Andy and I both left there giggling about how Britain single-handedly won every war ever.

I know, I know - the American take on the war is probably just as America-centric as the British take is Brit-centric, but that doesn’t make it less funny.

News: TV is actually working, hello to Papa, and I think I have food poisoning. It’s awesome.

One thing about some English folks is that they speak differently from some American folks. For the most part, I thoroughly enjoy their speech patterns and accents. There are, however, a few specific oddities that strike me as - well - just wrong.

1. The misplaced R
If one word ends in a vowel and the next word starts with a vowel, some folks stick a random R in there. The most culturally relevant example is PizzerExpress. Pizza Express is a big chain of pizza places - they are everywhere, and not once have I heard someone say Pizza Express. It’s always pizzer. People even do it with their own names. “Hello, this is EmmerAndrews. . . ” So weird.

2. The plural for a singular
In England, it would seem that companies are treated as plurals. So one might say “The BBC are. . . ” or “Verizon HAVE updated forecasts. . . . ” This, in America, would be just plain wrong. Verizon is a company. One company. This is singular. Here, though, it would be perceived as just as grammatically incorrect if I were to write or say it that way as it would be to use plurals in America. Not used to that just yet.

There are a few others, but they seem to be a bit more limited to specific accents/dialects. For example, some folks will say anyfink instead of anything. No seriously. Anyfink. WHAT is THAT?!

Anyway, it makes me wonder which aspects of American speech they would find odd. I’m sure the verbal clutches would be an immediate point of comparison. Americans say “like” and “ya know” a lot, while the English seem to say, “kindalike” and “to be honest.” The folks at work do frequently point out my sentences as “Americanisms,” but I haven’t figured out what makes a sentence an Americanism just yet. If I ask them, they tend to say things like, “I don’t really know actually, now that you asked.”

OH and in a meeting today, someone referred to the show Lost as SOOOooooo American. ? . Maybe because it’s really overproduced and glossy? Don’t know. It was also referred to as “American s#&* TV.” Now I KNOW there’s quite a bit of bad American TV, but considering the wealth of bad American TV they have here, I was surprised that they lumped this program into that category. Thoughts?

very VERY good news: the TV has ARRIVED!!! I was anticipating huge frustrations with the delivery process but hoping that I would then be pleasantly surprised if it worked out ok, and then I came home today and THERE IT WAS! It WORKED!

I’ve decided it’s time to try to woo Tiffany’s coworkers. I was able to get to the point where her NY co-workers liked me, and I’m trying to repeat that here. It’s not easy, especially with the way Tiffany talks about me around them : -).

So I’ve formulated a plan. My weapon of choice… baked goods.

I started today with one of my best, but most rare, oatmeal, pecan, chocolate chunk cookies. Brooke (who you might recognize from the mcneilorama comment hall of fame) really liked them, so I figured the Brits would also like them. Next it’ll be either biscotti or shortbread, to show off my breadth of baking repertoire. Then probably spicy ginger cookies just in time for the fall. And maybe, if they’re lucky a chocolate cheesecake with oreo cookie crust. Mmmmm, I’m salivating just thinking about it.

After all this, when they meet my balding, skinny, quiet self they’ll already like me!. Or at least that’s my plan. Does anybody else have any ideas? Maybe I should try muffins or something more British, like scones or toast… I’ll let you know how my plan shakes out.

For those of you who are dying to know, England won the second test of the ashes by two runs. 589-587. EXTREMELY close for cricket. Most resigned to the fact England wouldn’t get the last wicket in time, but then just in the nick of time, hoo-ahh. 1-1 with 90 more hours of cricket to play…