09 July 2008
Are you alright, lovely?
I love the way the British speak. I don’t mean the accents - although those are fun too – I am talking about the phrases that we don’t have in America. For the first few weeks of work I was paranoid that I sat at my desk with a puzzled/concerned/sad expression on my face because nearly every time anyone walked by they would say “are you alright?” I have since learned, and come to enjoy, that this phrase actually correlates with the American phrase “How are you?” or if you are a hip American you may say “What’s up?”
Another thing I love about the way the British talk is how encouraging every sentence is. While talking on the phone my boss litterly calls everyone “lovely.” Regardless of whether or not the person on the other end of the line is in fact lovely, or whether or not she has even met them, she always says “are alright, lovely?”
The city is hard on shoes, which in turn is hard on me because I love shoes. I walk miles everyday on cemented sidewalks and subway platforms. I am constantly stepped on by people who are taller than me (which is almost everyone) because the sidewalks and tube are so packed. And, it rains constantly so they never truly dry out. I was told by many people to focus on the comfort of the shoe and not the way it looks because of how the city destroys shoes, but I didn’t listen. So today I drug my blistered feel over to the shoe repair man to fix the heels of two pairs of shoes. The cute old man just smiled at me and probably was thinking “stupid American with your fancy shoes.” Then on the two block walk back to my office I noticed nearly a dozen women who had paired their professional business suits with tennis shoes. While they probably don’t have to get their shoes repaired and their feet are more than likely not covered in blisters, I can’t bring myself to create such a fashion fau-paux.
I remember always noticing when my family would take trips to NYC that the locals on the streets had permanent annoyed looks plastered across their faces. The city has just made them cold, I would convince myself. But now, I fear I am becoming one of them. Herds of tourists standing in front of the exit to the tube station with their giant maps blocking me from getting to work. People standing in the middle of the sidewalk taking pictures of churches as if they were the paparazzi. I scoff and think, “ha, I know my way around” and then karma kicks me in the butt and makes me realize that I am nothing more than a tourist as well. I still get lost. I still take the wrong tube. I still eat at the same places because I can’t find the new ones people have recommended to me. I’m still a tourist.
Another thing I love about the way the British talk is how encouraging every sentence is. While talking on the phone my boss litterly calls everyone “lovely.” Regardless of whether or not the person on the other end of the line is in fact lovely, or whether or not she has even met them, she always says “are alright, lovely?”
The city is hard on shoes, which in turn is hard on me because I love shoes. I walk miles everyday on cemented sidewalks and subway platforms. I am constantly stepped on by people who are taller than me (which is almost everyone) because the sidewalks and tube are so packed. And, it rains constantly so they never truly dry out. I was told by many people to focus on the comfort of the shoe and not the way it looks because of how the city destroys shoes, but I didn’t listen. So today I drug my blistered feel over to the shoe repair man to fix the heels of two pairs of shoes. The cute old man just smiled at me and probably was thinking “stupid American with your fancy shoes.” Then on the two block walk back to my office I noticed nearly a dozen women who had paired their professional business suits with tennis shoes. While they probably don’t have to get their shoes repaired and their feet are more than likely not covered in blisters, I can’t bring myself to create such a fashion fau-paux.
I remember always noticing when my family would take trips to NYC that the locals on the streets had permanent annoyed looks plastered across their faces. The city has just made them cold, I would convince myself. But now, I fear I am becoming one of them. Herds of tourists standing in front of the exit to the tube station with their giant maps blocking me from getting to work. People standing in the middle of the sidewalk taking pictures of churches as if they were the paparazzi. I scoff and think, “ha, I know my way around” and then karma kicks me in the butt and makes me realize that I am nothing more than a tourist as well. I still get lost. I still take the wrong tube. I still eat at the same places because I can’t find the new ones people have recommended to me. I’m still a tourist.
07 July 2008
The line forms here...
The theme of this weekend was: waiting in line
Line 1: We took the tube to the Portobello Road Antique Market in Notting Hill on Saturday morning to play with vintage jewelry and snack on fresh produce. Hundreds of other peopled did the same thing so we had to wait in lines just to get close enough to any vendor. I didn't so much mind the lines because I was enjoying soaking in the smells and the noises and the people and all the strange things I could purchase. My favorite person we saw all morning was this middle-aged woman, who I believe was quite beautiful in her younger days but cigarettes and the sun had been hard on her. She had a small booth filled with antique jewelry - the kind of pieces that you just stand there and stare at because they are so eye catching. When someone would pick up a necklace or a broach or a ring she would do one of two things: 1) she would go into a five minute long history of how she acquired this particular piece and then showing everything she had that was even remotely similiar until the shopper became so uninterested that they walked away OR 2) she would say "oh no, not that one, I think I want to keep that one" and would add it to the gawdy collection of jewelry she was already wearing. She was certainly no saleswoman but she had the aura about her that makes the kind of character Goldie Hawn would play in a movie.
line 2: An hour long train ride later we ened up in Wimbledon for the Championships of the tennis tournament. We were the 200th spot in line so we waited "patiently" for our turn to get inside the grounds - which proved to be well worth the wait. It was finally warm, for the first time in over a week, and we sat on the mound eating strawberries and creme while we watched Serena and Venus Williams play eachother. I felt like quite the socialite, even though it was clear that I had no idea what was going on. Wimbledon is one of those things that, whether you are a tennis love or not (and for me, it's closer to not), truely helps you appreciate the British culture.
Line 1: We took the tube to the Portobello Road Antique Market in Notting Hill on Saturday morning to play with vintage jewelry and snack on fresh produce. Hundreds of other peopled did the same thing so we had to wait in lines just to get close enough to any vendor. I didn't so much mind the lines because I was enjoying soaking in the smells and the noises and the people and all the strange things I could purchase. My favorite person we saw all morning was this middle-aged woman, who I believe was quite beautiful in her younger days but cigarettes and the sun had been hard on her. She had a small booth filled with antique jewelry - the kind of pieces that you just stand there and stare at because they are so eye catching. When someone would pick up a necklace or a broach or a ring she would do one of two things: 1) she would go into a five minute long history of how she acquired this particular piece and then showing everything she had that was even remotely similiar until the shopper became so uninterested that they walked away OR 2) she would say "oh no, not that one, I think I want to keep that one" and would add it to the gawdy collection of jewelry she was already wearing. She was certainly no saleswoman but she had the aura about her that makes the kind of character Goldie Hawn would play in a movie.
line 2: An hour long train ride later we ened up in Wimbledon for the Championships of the tennis tournament. We were the 200th spot in line so we waited "patiently" for our turn to get inside the grounds - which proved to be well worth the wait. It was finally warm, for the first time in over a week, and we sat on the mound eating strawberries and creme while we watched Serena and Venus Williams play eachother. I felt like quite the socialite, even though it was clear that I had no idea what was going on. Wimbledon is one of those things that, whether you are a tennis love or not (and for me, it's closer to not), truely helps you appreciate the British culture.
line 3: In typical London fashion, it rained all day yesterday. A friend and I took the train to Windsor Castle and made an adventure out of touring the state rooms soaking wet. It was amazing to have the opportunity to see King Henry VIII's coat of armor and Queen Elizabeth's bedroom. We may quite possibly have been the only ones on our tour that spoke english. It is fascinating to me that so many people outside of the UK are interested in the royal family. I don't know if it is the prestige or long-running history but even though I come from a country that has nothing remotely close to a royal family, I find myself scowering the tabloids for gossip about them here. Windsor was more a picture of what I pictured an English town to be. The cobblestone streets were lined with bakeries and tailors but the buckets of rain kept us from venturing past the fudge shop, where we stocked up on enough to keep us occupied for the train ride home.
And perhaps my favorite LINE story of all still gives me a headache to think about. I jumped on the tube during my lunch break to meet two friends in Covent garden at this cute little bistro. Of the billion tube stations in London, Covent garden is the only one who brilliantly decided to use elevators rather than escelators. As we struggled to fit as many sardines on the elevetor as possible, the door got jammed and those of us who were chanting small victories in our heads for being in the select group to make it inside were stuck. No air movement. No cell phone reception. No lunch at the cute little bistro with my friends. No perfect record of making it back to my internship on time after lunch everyday. I never thought I would say this, but I am considering writing a letter to someone and begging them to install some stairs. Although I am relishing in my work-out-less lifestyle at the current moment, I'd jog up 200 stairs if it meant never having to be trapped in a tube station eleveator again.
And perhaps my favorite LINE story of all still gives me a headache to think about. I jumped on the tube during my lunch break to meet two friends in Covent garden at this cute little bistro. Of the billion tube stations in London, Covent garden is the only one who brilliantly decided to use elevators rather than escelators. As we struggled to fit as many sardines on the elevetor as possible, the door got jammed and those of us who were chanting small victories in our heads for being in the select group to make it inside were stuck. No air movement. No cell phone reception. No lunch at the cute little bistro with my friends. No perfect record of making it back to my internship on time after lunch everyday. I never thought I would say this, but I am considering writing a letter to someone and begging them to install some stairs. Although I am relishing in my work-out-less lifestyle at the current moment, I'd jog up 200 stairs if it meant never having to be trapped in a tube station eleveator again.
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