It’s really interesting to me that the most friendly people to us right away were the other outsiders. The Bengali guys at the market and at the laundry, the awesome Chinese family at the coffee bar – these were the first people who treated us like people here. I have to think that as hard as it’s been for us to assimilate with the local Italians, it must have been ten times more difficult for these other immigrants. At least Jose and I could pass for Italians (with our mouths closed, of course). The Chinese, Bengali and African immigrants will always stand out right away as “foreigners” no matter how good their Italian is.

There definitely seems to be some kind of segregation going on within this community. When you look around our neighborhood, you see Italian shops filled with Italians. And then there are “foreigner” shops filled with “foreigners”. One of the few integrated shops is the gelato shop… where at least you see the occasional Bengali or Chinese family stopping in for an ice cream.

Perhaps this can be attributed to differences in cultures. There definitely seems to be differences in the food and dress of the different cultures. The Bengali ladies in saris are definitely not going to need to shop at the Italian clothing boutiques – and vice versa. Also, Italians don’t seem to have much interest in non-Italian cuisine. At the grocery store, there are very few foreign foods. Around town, it’s very difficult to find restaurants serving any food except Italian food.

Tradition also seems to be highly valued in Italian culture. How could it not be when you are surrounded by remnants of your own ancient civilization? The neighborhood we live in was actually physically built by the working class people who moved here in the 1920s… Maybe there is a sense of ownership that comes along with knowing that your grandpa built your neighborhood. You grow up shopping where your mom shopped and things just stay the same, even as your neighborhood is changing around you.

Maybe religion plays a part, too. Catholicism was actually the official religion of Italy until fairly recently. Every tax payer has to decide whether he wants a percentage of his taxes to go to his religion of choice or to the state. If religion, particularly Catholicism, is such an institutionalized part of society – it seems like it could be difficult for people of other religions to fit in here. My Italian hairdresser shocked me with animated feelings about Muslims praying “right there on the street” – and claimed that “Italy is a Catholic country” and essentially that he objected to having to witness people practicing other religions “in front of him”.

And, maybe the Italian locals are a little shell-shocked by the constant barrage of tourists and influx of immigrants. Our landlords are super nice, seemingly liberal people (based on the books on their bookshelves). But we were a little taken aback by this quote from the little guidebook they put together for their house guests describing the neighborhood:

“From some years on a Bengali community is present with Call Centers and shops that remain opened until night (10 p.m. approximately). Now a Chinese community is putting its roots. Not so loved because of its commercial expansionism.”

Like every other country and culture in the world, Italians put a high value on their own way of life. If I were them, I’d be a little more threatened by the Auchan market down the street than I would by the Bengali vegetable stand on the corner. I understand that shop-keeping Italians have achieved a work-life balance that they are very happy with… and that maybe go-getter immigrants could threaten this… but a store like Auchan, that’s open on Sunday, that has predictable merchandise, that abides by posted hours, and has very competitive prices – that would keep me up at night.

Perhaps the whole unification of Italy thing is also an issue. 150 years ago, Italy didn’t have a single, national identity. It was a bunch of different states with really distinct traditions, dialects, cuisine and identities. Even with the sesquicentennial celebration of Italy’s Unification this week, campanilismo, or local patriotism, is still a very powerful force in Italian culture.

I know these are all issues that face my country of origin as well… and probably every other country with an immigrant population. As I told my hairdresser, maybe the difference is the whole melting pot thing… that assimilation is actually a two way street… and that no culture is immune to the influences of other cultures, no matter how good your cheese is. I don’t think we have mastered this in the US yet, but it is something the majority of Americans aspire to. Maybe it’s a little easier to come by when you know that pretty much everyone (except Native Americans) are immigrants. I’m not sure that blending together cultures is a shared value at all here in Italy. It would take a long time, and a much better understanding of the language and culture, for me to reach any definite conclusions on Italy and immigration.

Having an “immigrant experience” here in Italy has taught me so much. I’ve always been so impressed with the immigrant spirit. Now that I’ve experienced a tiny hint of that first hand, I’m more awed than ever. I see it in the Bengali and Chinese communities here in Italy, in my in-laws who came to New York from Equador, and looking back to my great-grandparents who came from a tiny, poor town in Italy to great opportunity through hard work in California.

We’re virtually on vacation here. We don’t really have to fit in. We don’t need to work or get an education. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to overcome so many obstacles… all knowing that your home is here now and there’s no turning back no matter how unwelcome you may be.

I can’t tell you the overwhelming gratitude I’ve felt for the people who have had patience with me as I learned the ways and language here. The simple kindness of someone showing you something and telling you the word for it – it’s so amazing to be the recipient of that gift. It is a really loving thing to help someone fit in – to actually teach someone how to live in your world. And, I think it’s a gift that rewards the giver as well.

As visitors we stayed in the heart of Old Rome – just a short walk from the coliseum. This time, we were moving into a truly Roman neighborhood. We wanted to experience the authentic city and the real people who make it their home. We wanted to live somewhere where we would actually live and not vacation. We knew this would mean the most dramatic adjustments – as our outsider status would be glaringly obvious to everyone and our caveman’s grasp of the Italian language would make communication very challenging. They don’t get many tourists around here. No one really speaks much English.

Although I moved around so much as a kid – and continued to do so as an adult – I must admit it’s still a little jarring feeling like an utter outsider. A stupid outsider with absolutely no clue about anything. A mute outsider without the most basic tools to make myself understood. Basically, a hopelessly confused, bumbling ninny. At least, that’s how I felt constantly.

Sometimes, I’d approach a counter and actually find myself tongue-tied. How should I greet this person? Is it time to say buonasera, or is it still buongiorno time? Would it be too familiar of me to say Ciao? So, I’d just stand there like I swallowed a goldfish, gulping and panicked.

I would rehearse my gelato order over and over in my head, only to spit out an incomprehensible garble with the accent always on the wrong syllable, the vowel sounds completely wrong – and then get confronted with confounding, unexpected questions. It took me five visits to figure out they kept asking me if I wanted whipped cream on my gelato – and that was only after the poor girl went over to the cream and held up a scoop and repeated, “Panna?” It took me a couple more visits to understand that they also were asking if I wanted a second flavor on the same cone. And then to understand solo and tutti were the same and they both mean all or only in this context. I still haven’t gotten down the exact pronunciation of my one and only flavor, fragola (strawberry). Every time I order it, they have repeated my request, making it plainly obvious that I’m saying it completely wrong – and still, I get too panicked to listen properly – and come back the next day ordering it all wrong again.

My first day on the bus, I headed out alone with just a destination in mind. I didn’t have a bus route map, only a vague idea how to buy tickets, and about three words of Italian in my entire vocabulary. I felt pretty sharp remembering that bus tickets could be pre-purchased at the tobacco shops and even managed to request them using the first word that popped into my head, autobus – luckily a Spanish word that also happens to be the Italian word for bus. That, and the four fingers I held up, got me four bus tickets. Hooray!

The triumph was short lived as I proceeded to the bus stop with absolutely no idea of which direction I needed to go – further confounded by the buses in both directions having the exact same destination signs. I took a look at the rather explicit signs at the bus stop – and wouldn’t you know it – they could be interpreted in two totally opposite ways. It was a total crap shoot. I just jumped on the first bus that passed.

For 15 minutes or so, I sat staring out the window and studying each bus stop sign trying to deduce if I was going the right way, or the completely wrong way. I desperately wanted to ask someone for help, but for god’s sake, I didn’t have the words to do it… and I was completely beaten down by all my previous failed attempts at communication. I was also thinking that if I were heading the wrong way – or even if I were heading the right way – everyone on the bus would know that I just spent 15 minutes not having any idea where I was going. Then I realized, if I spent the next 2 1/2 months worrying about what people thought of me, I was going to have a pretty lame time.

And then, it came to me, one magical word: direzione. It means direction – and combined with my destination (Termini station) – and some pointing and exaggerated question inflection – I just might be able to ask if I was going the right way before I reached the end of the line. I looked at the intimidating, confident looking woman across the aisle from me and said, “Direzione Termini?” and pointed the direction the bus was traveling. “No, blah blah blah blah,” she replied, pointing the opposite way and shaking her head.

I’m chalking that up as a victory, because I got off the bus, crossed the street and got onto the right bus, heading to the correct destination. Another hooray for me!

During our first week, it seemed like we had scorn heaped upon us at every turn. I felt like people were actually disgusted by my ineptitude, my foreignness and my utter out-of-placedness. On my first trip to the big supermarket in our neighborhood, I got up to the check stand and the cashier freaked out because I didn’t do something right with my vegetables. She was totally freaking out like it was the end of the world. Jose paid for the rest of the groceries and I went back to the veggie department with my bags of vegetables desperately trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. I looked at all the signs and couldn’t see any evidence of directions I’d failed to follow. I looked for pencils and tags – maybe I needed to write down bin numbers or something… but nothing. Finally, I walked up to the deli counter, and was immediate shooed away and redirected to the vegetable department again.

Up walked what seemed to be the store manager. She saw me bumbling around with my bags with a deranged and clueless look on my face – and proceeded to yell at me and then moved on to just yelling about me… for the next several minutes… eventually from across the store. The only thing I understood, besides that she was super pissed off and terribly bitchy, was that now that I touched the vegetables, they were garbage. In Italy, touching produce is considered unsanitary. There are mittens everywhere to pick up the veggies. That I’d understood. There were signs explaining that.

The vegetable guy came up and started mutter about me / to me. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but it was clear he was completely unsympathetic to my plight, but he was going to help me anyway. Turns out, you need to weigh your vegetables on the scales and punch in the code that corresponds to the vegetables, and the machine prints out a barcode that the cashier scans. A rather slick system, really.

It soon became clear that they all had their panties in a bunch because the store was about to close. I’d heard that this was the general attitude about the end of the working day in Italy. Store’s closing – get out. Now! But that didn’t make me feel any less bummed out. I’d really wanted to throw the vegetables on the floor and tell everyone to fuck off. But, for all I know, making vegetables garbage by touching them and then not buying them could be a crime in Italy. And besides, I couldn’t even say “fuck off” in Italian. And furthermore, this was definitely the best grocery store in the area. I wanted to come back so we could buy Kelloggs Crunchy Nuts again.

Being yelled at and unable to defend myself left me with a bad feeling for several hours. Finally, it occurred to me that it was like being a kid and getting yelled at, but not being able to say anything back. Next time someone yells at me, I’m just going to yell back, in English.

Of course, the next time I got yelled at, just a few days later, I did not yell back. Turns out, I’m not really a yeller. Especially at old ladies. Old ladies that I fall onto on the crowded bus. Really, I practically tackled her from behind. If I had known Italian, I might have said, perhaps if you would make room for someone carrying heavy bags to hold onto the hand rail too, people wouldn’t be falling on you. But instead, I just let her yell at me while I comforted myself by trying to remember the Italian word for “dried up old cod” that my grandma used to say.

The massively peeling paint of the building entryway had me worried a bit. As did the picture of the Virgin Mary hanging above the mailboxes. And lugging our monumental assortment of baggage up the stairs really made the “two flights” real. I’d actually forgotten that Italian second floor is really the third floor since the ground floor is called zero. 71 steps, actually. Doesn’t sound like a lot, but dzamn, it is. After a couple of weeks here, I can make it up about 50 before I need to stop and “admire the view”. The other day, one of our neighbors said “Duro! Duro!” to us as we arrived on our landing and shook her hand like she was flinging water off of it… which I took to mean, damn, that climb is hard, right?

Our landlady and landlord couldn’t have been nicer or more adorable. The apartment was super cute, and very clean, in spite of very strong spicy smells in the kitchen and a seriously intense blast of mothballs emanating from the bedroom. I think the landlady was relieved to meet us in person and see that it was reasonable to trust us with her home. She kissed me on both cheeks very enthusiastically after they’d finished explaining things like how to use the washing machine, how to turn on the furnace, how to operate the t.v. and which drawers and closet were free for us to use.

I went out onto the balcony and watched them make the final adjustments to their carload of belongings – hoping to wave goodbye to them – but they never looked up before they drove away. And then, it was truly our apartment and we’d finally arrived in a place we’d spent months imagining.

Starting to unpack, I have to admit, I had some misgivings. It wasn’t how I expected it to be. We weren’t arriving in some sterile, generic apartment just waiting for me to make it home. It was, in fact, already someone else’s home. My landlord / landlady actually live here when they aren’t renting it out. So instead of random sheets and towels and pillows and dishes that you’d get at a typical rental flat – we were using THEIR sheets and towels and pillows and dishes. And, although it was warm and personal, it was also so personal that it felt like being at someone else’s house. After packing up and moving out of our apartment in California, I was looking forward to making a new home here. We’d already been traveling for a month, staying at other people’s houses and hotels, and I really wanted to feel at home instead of being a guest again.

And, as warm and friendly as our hosts were, they had so much stuff, it didn’t really feel like there was room for us – to the point that it was actually unwelcoming. The bathroom shelves were crowded, every surface except for a long table in the living room, was covered with doodads and personal items. Not that they weren’t cute and charming and homey, but where the hell am I supposed to put MY hairbrush and MY soap and MY personal items. We were given two drawers in the bedroom dresser and half of one of the three wardrobes in the bedroom – mostly the unreachable half that you’d need a step ladder to reach.

I was actually kind of pissed when I started unpacking. Like, how can you rent out a place with so little accommodation for your guests? Especially when we are staying so long? I mean, the ledges in the shower were still filled with their shampoos and soaps! And the desk in the bedroom had not only decorative / functional items, but folders and notebooks. Was I really supposed to sit there at that desk for the next couple of months with their stuff right where my stuff should be?

So I climbed up on the step ladder and moved all of their belongings in the wardrobe to the unreachable shelves so we had somewhere to hang our clothes. I cleared out the shower and the most convenient two shelves in the bathroom and moved their items to a far away shelf by the door. I just went through the house clearing things enough to wedge ourselves into the place. And Jose turned around the mournful picture of the Virgin Mary on the dresser in our bedroom.

Over the next couple of days, I bought a new set of sheets, a couple new pillows, our own towels, a few things for the kitchen, some incense and scented candles – and even a new tablecloth. I just couldn’t get comfortable while worrying about ruining her stuff. And I’ll confess, I’m slightly germ phobic. Not like my friend who can’t answer her phone at work without using a kleenex to hold the receiver, but I just can’t use someone else’s wooden spoon. Heck, I even label our pillows with a Sharpie so I’ll always know which one is mine.

After a couple of weeks now, I feel settled in… and that this place has finally become our home. The eclectic collection of original artwork (several prominently featuring aliens) and interesting little objects actually remind me of our former home. Some things that might be considered inconvenient are cracking us up: like how almost every chair here has hideous deformity that makes sitting nearly or totally impossible – or how the lightbulbs come on really dim and then ever so slowly brighten over the course of ten minutes – or that the front door is opened by a skeleton key in very janky old lock that requires a nearly magical touch to open and close. I’m sure these are things that we will miss about this place and remember for a very long time.

The only thing that still bugs me is the smell of mothballs. Good god, these moths must be hardcore if that level of moth protection is required. The smell almost drives me away… I can’t imagine there is a moth within a mile of this place if mothballs really do work.

Went to be at 7:30 AM this morning after a loooooong night of work and packing. Woke up 3 1/2 hours later at 11AM and started working again until 2PM. Went to lunch to try the amazing tri-tip sandwich place here in Hollister, the Dunneville Cafe. Resumed work until 4PM. Went to the cemetery and walked around for 45 minutes looking for my friend’s mom and grandfather’s graves. Instead, shockingly, found the graves of many people I knew… and many, many more loved ones of people I know. Drove through Foster’s Freeze for an ice cream cone and a coke. Returned home, took my first bath in two days, threw in some laundry, did my taxes, called Keri, wrote some emails, drove through McDonald’s, had a nice chat with Shelley, gave myself a manicure, paid all my bills, packed some more, spent 30 minutes on the phone with my credit card company, drew little hearts all over my comforter to hide all the blobs from when I dyed it (which I’m currently sitting on to smoosh into the space bag so I can stuff it into my suitcase), updated my facebook status, did more laundry, plucked eyebrows, uploaded some pics to Flickr, and am now blogging.

A few minutes ago, my brother woke up and came in the room, finding me plucking my eyebrows.

Bro: Are you on meth?
Me: No, I’m just leaving for a huge trip tomorrow and I’m plucking my eyebrows so I don’t have a gorilla face when I see everyone tomorrow. And, I’m going to be giving myself a mini facial in a minute.
Bro: Seriously, are you on meth?
Me: I have never taken or even seen meth, Bobby.
Bro: Now, you are getting defensive like a meth head and starting to scare me.

I guess I’ve had a pretty full couple of days – at the end of a few frantic weeks of moving out of my apartment, wrapping up my life in the Bay Area and preparing to start an entirely new life that begins with an epic trip. Tomorrow, New York City! London in ten days. In 27 days, I’ll be moving into an apartment in Rome and settling in for two and a half months. What’s after that? I have no idea. I’m coming to the realization that I have the heart of a thrill seeker with the mind of a worrywart. I’m hoping Rome is every bit as lazy as promised and I’ll come home (wherever that will be) a more relaxed thrill seeker. And speaking Italian.

Time for mini-facial.

It’s not like we are going on a vacation. It’s easy to understand the allure of vacation: no agenda outside of relaxation and enjoyment. A couple of weeks of that and you’re going to feel great. We spent a week in Maui a few years ago and I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to keep feeling the way Maui made me feel: relaxed and content. But it wasn’t Maui. Put me behind my desk in Maui and I suspect I’d feel just the same as I do in San Francisco – stressed and unfulfilled.

When we move to Europe, we won’t be on vacation. So how is this going to be better than home? In fact, how is it not going to be worse? Thinking about moving has reminded me that my happiness comes from my relationships with the people I love. That’s pretty much it. Without those people, everything is hollow.

Looking for answers, I can’t help but reflect on my childhood. As a child, my family moved constantly. I was a shy kid and re-establishing myself in a new school was often very uncomfortable for me. I’d sit at the edge of the playground, reading a book, trying to get a handle on who these kids were and how I fit in. Sometimes it would take a couple of months to really develop friendships with anyone. I remember a lot of my birthdays (in October) passing unnoticed and friendless.

But of course, I was never truly friendless. I had my family. Being thrust into a new environment together did bring us closer. To this day, my parents are two of my very best friends.

And, eventually, I learned to speak up, make myself known, find common ground, and to unabashedly reach out to new people – all skills that I may have never picked up otherwise.

In spite of all the stress of moving from town to town and school to school, I’d have to say that it ultimately benefited me. And, although I never would have chosen that lifestyle as a kid, I am choosing it now.

Starting from scratch in a new place isn’t easy, but it also creates an opportunity for growth and reinvention that I won’t be wasting. I’ve got a whole string of goals that I would like to accomplish during my year abroad:

Deepen my bond with my husband.
In our day to day life, it’s easy to take each other for granted and get side-tracked by all of the outside demands on our time. Although we’ve been together for almost a decade, we’re still relative newlyweds, just married a year and a half now. I’d like to see what life is like with just the two of us relying on each other.

Realizing a long-cherish dream.
Making dreams come true feels so good! Every time I accomplish something seemingly impossible, it proves to me that I can do anything.

Embrace a new lifestyle.
I want to slow the pace of my life down, reduce my consumerism, eat out less often, be less afraid of risk and savor the present. I need a fresh perspective.

Lure my friends and family to Europe.
For me, travelling with friends is as good as it gets. Every time I visit a new place, there are a string of people in my mind that I would love to share the experience with. For a whole year, I’m going to be seeing old friends in new places and it’s going to be beyond delightful.

Here are some of the things I’m doing to prepare for our adventure:

(1) Defining what I hope to gain from this experience.

Sounds like an easy one, right? Almost not worth asking really. But Jose asked me this a couple of months ago and it got me thinking… a lot.

(2) Preparing myself and loved ones for a long separation.

Not easy, but much easier to endure knowing that I’m going to have lots of visitors in Europe!

(3) Decluttering my life.
I am going minimalist… and I’m going to have the mother of all garage sales before we move!

(4) Getting on track financially.
Ugh. This isn’t fun. Working on getting credit cards and car note paid off. Savings? Not yet.

(5) Pursuing dual citizenship option.
Since my great-grandparents are from Italy, I might be able to get dual citizenship… if my grandma was born after her father became a US citizen. Still working on tracking down his naturalization documentation. Fingers crossed!

(6) Learning Italian.
I’m going to have to take this beyond the Italian Word of the Day widget on my iGoogle homepage. And quickly!

(7) Expanding the original plan.
Who said we have to stay in one place the whole time. Rome is going to be awesome, but if we are truly location-independent, we have the freedom to roam.

(8) Transforming Work.
Right now, I have a regular old job. Soon, I need to be able to work from anywhere in the world. Yikes / hooray!

Not so easy to get out of bed this morning, but we needed to get an early start. Today we rented a car and set out to Bath and Stonehenge. The round trip was about 240 miles. Just like last year, everyone we talked to was shocked that we planned to make it there and back in one day. I guess it is a long way, and kind of sad to spend such a short time in such neat places. But, I think it’s a beautiful drive and a fun adventure.

We had a bit of an unfortunate start. We arrived at the car rental place just in time for our 9AM reservation. We rang the bell. No answer. We rang repeatedly to no avail. Finally, someone coming out of the building let us into the building and we discovered the suite completely gutted and strewn with litter. Oh no! I had just gotten a confirmation the day before.

Turns out, this was the corporate office address and not the rental location. Not sure how I messed that up. Since time was a-wasting, we decided to grab a cab to the right place. Even the cab driver was shocked by our itinerary. I told him we were road warriors and he said we must be. He was a friendly guy and had some good advice on the best route to take out of town.

Peugeot Rental Car

Getting into the “wrong” side of the car, shifting (yes, we rented a manual transmission) with the “wrong” hand, and driving on the “wrong” side of the road – all challenging – and made more so by the complications of navigating London streets to the motorway. It was a tense, white-knuckled start.

Ultimately, I only had a few minor driving mishaps. I did graze a curb on a undivided highway going about 50 miles an hour. It was a constant battle to force myself to ride closer to the center divider. And, I think I got honked at and yelled at for driving too fast on a two-way, one lane road. The honking yeller was driving an antique motorcar ala Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and he ran his car up on a muddy embankment as we passed. I also drove on the wrong side of the road while making a right turn. I headed right for a honking double-decker bus for a few scary moments.

Besides the side of the road issue, driving in the UK was pretty painless, in spite of my initial nervousness. I even managed a smooth parallel parking job, something I can never do in San Francisco! Even so, the roundabouts are nerve-wracking and I had to let out a mini-scream and grit my teeth to get through them. Next time, I’ll definitely have a look at some basic U.K. driver information before I hit the road.

Mini Pancakes at Burger King. Delicious!

Onward to Bath!

When we set the GPS (aka Sat Nav in UK) for Bath Abbey, we had no idea it would literally direct us to the front door of the Bath Abbey. And, bonus, there was actually an empty parking space there! Can’t wait for the future when GPS will always point you to the closest empty parking spot. Yeah, right. I’m still waiting to quit my job and relax while the robots do all the work. Lies, all lies.

The Bath Abbey is so delightful. It may not as spectacular as Westminster Abbey or Notre Dame or St. Peter’s – but it has a really pretty fan vaulted ceiling and there are lots of interesting memorials throughout the place. You can see some of our favorites in these pics, like this urn of amazingly delicate flowers. On this visit, I was especially digging the different fonts used in the inscriptions and the skull-filled iconography.

If you are a Jane Austen fan, you’ll definitely get a nerdy thrill out of just being in Bath. She lived here for about five years (1801 – 1806) and Bath was the backdrop for two of her novels, Persuasion and Northanger Abbey. The area around the abbey is closed to cars and that definitely helps if you want to pretend that Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth are just around the corner. There is a Jane Austen Centre, but we haven’t gotten around to visiting it yet.

Roxanne & Jose at Roman Baths

What remains in Bath today are the ruins of the Roman’s baths / temple to Minerva and the 19th Century English buildings built on top of the ruins. The museum was a tad expensive, or so we thought until we got inside. They’ve done an amazing amount of restoration and created lots of nice educational exhibits which totally justified the £11.50 admission price. Sadly, the baths are closed since someone in 1979 died from meningitis.

But in the super swanky Pump Room restaurant on the premises, you can drink a cup of water from a newly-bored / disease free tap into the spring. It comes pouring out of the prettiest little fountain. I had to try it because you always read about “taking the waters” in Bath in Victorian novels. It’s really intensely minerally water, served up at around 90 degrees or so. Kind of icky. But I’d do it again if I were in town. Because drinking from springs is romantic and especially so with this particular one.

Victorian Mineral Spring Drinking Fountain

Stonehenge, Here We Come

So, after a moist and hasty dash from Bath, we came upon Stonehenge. It’s just the craziest thing to be speeding down the highway past green, rolling pastures and forests, and then to suddenly arrive at Stonehenge. And it is very improbably located right next to the road, actually nestled in between two different highways.

Roxanne & Jose at Stonehenge

Back in London

This is the part of the story where we get a bit lost, circling around the general area of our car rental shop, until we finally find it – and nearly get clocked by a double-decker bus as I drive on the wrong side of the road turning into the parking lot. As I’m parking the car, Jose gets a front row seat to a drug deal: a man on the street and a man on the second floor conducting business via a rope-lowered basket.

We decided to give the Anglesea Arms a try for dinner. It’s this really old pub where Charles Dickens used to hang out and where D.H. Lawrence got married. And it’s supposedly haunted. The pub was very warm and snug – the food was pretty decent – and the dining room was quiet in spite of the hordes of young rascals in the bar enjoying a Friday night drink or ten. Sitting by the fire with a nice glass of warm beer for Jose and a glass of whiskey for me: a pretty good way to end a busy day!

The Most Humble Grave in the Cemetery

Cemetery Vista

Creperie de Hampstead

Utensil from Creperie de Hampstead: Knork? Fife?

Westfield London Mall Ceiling

Roxanne at Topshop

Tottenham Court Tube Station

 
So, I think I got a massage from a hooker. I just had to blurt that out. After the theatre debacle, I decided to head to Chinatown again and get a chair massage from one of the massage places I’d seen last night. Ever since the plane ride over, my neck has been incredibly sore and stiff. I went up to the elderly lady barker outside of the first massage place I passed. I asked about chair massages, since I didn’t see any in the window and she acted really weird about it and then said, no, the only had massages upstairs. I’ll admit, at this point, I thought – hookers? – but also thought, well, i don’t see a chair in the window, so maybe this is just not the appropriate place.

The night before I’d actually seen people in the window of a massage place getting chair massages. It had shelves full of chinese herbs in boxes on display. It really did seem legit. And, I could really, really use a good massage. I kept walking until I came upon the place I saw the night before. I went inside. Here’s the scene. Clean, well-lit, two massage chairs in the window, shelves of herbal medicines neatly organized, a middle-aged woman behind the counter, a big burly British man sitting in a chair off to one side of the shop, an older Chinese woman sitting on the other side along with a little kid, and a staircase at the back.

I asked about chair massages and she handed me their menu of services. I told her I wanted a 15-minute head and neck massage. It was £15. So I said sure. She had me sit in one of the chairs and then the true nature of this place started to become perfectly clear to me. A couple of the masseuses came up front… young, pretty women in short skirts. Hmmm… From what I could gather, none of these chicks wanted to give me a chair massage. The burly British dude made some comment about how they were fighting over me, but I could tell, they didn’t want to waste their time with a “real” massage. At the same time, they were all keeping up the pretense as required by their front as a legitimate massage and herbal medicine shop. Finally, some woman agrees to do it, and comes over to start the massage.

I knew I was in a very weird situation, but I didn’t see how it could be harmful and I’ll admit, it was totally ridiculous and I’m into stuff like that. I was totally chuckling to myself as I was putting together the whole picture in my mind. And, I really was in need of a massage, so why not? While she was giving my massage, another “client” of this masseuse came into the shop. She told him she was giving a chair massage so he would have to wait. The way she said “chair massage” was so funny. You could almost hear her winking to him. It was just so absurd that everyone there was stuck pretending that this place was legit… me, the staff, the hookers, the bouncer, the “clients”… and what the heck was that kid doing there? When I told Jose the story, he thought the older woman was babysitting the kid for one of the prostitutes, which makes sense to me.

I almost fell out of the chair laughing when a client came down the stairs and told the woman at the counter that he wanted another 30-minute massage with the same girl, but he wanted to go outside and smoke a cigarette first.

The woman actually gave a good, professional massage. She did seem rushed though – in spite of the fact that this was a timed massage. Rushing through things might work with her other “massages” but didn’t make mine end any quicker.

Oh, and the bouncer creepily offered me a glass of water after my massage. He said it’s good to have a glass of water after a massage. I declined firmly.

Hope you don’t find this story too horrifying, but it’s one of those rich experiences that I just have to share. I’ve never been one to believe that there is such a thing as “too much information.” As soon as I got out of the shop, I grabbed my cell and called my mom: “Guess what?! I just got a massage from a hooker!” My poor mom.

Night not over yet, but my next adventure at Pizza Express is just to mundane to recount now.

 
First thing, I ran down to do some quick shopping on Oxford Street. I lavishly spent £17 on a cab ride from our hotel since I slept in so late. I visited Evans (a woman’s plus-sized chain) and New Look (kind of trendy teenager shop with a plus-size line). Considering the cab splurge, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t find anything to buy.

The Princes Arcade

 
Even more fabulous was our afternoon tea destination: The Wolseley. Unfortunately, since it’s a favorite celebrity hangout (Kate Moss, Elton John & Ralph Fiennes), no photography is allowed… so once again you’ll have to do a google image search to see it.

Entrance to The Wolseley

The finger sandwiches included cucumber, roast beef, smoked salmon, egg and cheddar/chive. I have to admit, I’d read about cucumber sandwiches many times in Victorian novels and never thought they sounded very tasty… but in fact, they are pretty darn yummy and delicate. Karla said that the cucumbers are peeled, sliced very thin, salted and pressed for some time to extract the water before they are served with a very thin layer of cream cheese.

I’ve never had real scones, freshly made English scones before. They look a lot more like American biscuits than the big, triangular scones I’m used to. The top and bottom are glazed with egg wash and nicely browned. Evidently, the way you combine your scone with clotted cream and jam says a lot about who you are and how classy you are. I chose to enjoy mine just like Karla did – the Scottish way, I think she said – with a big fluffy smear of clotted cream and then topped generously with homemade strawberry jam. I’d never had clotted cream before either. It’s like a combination of whipped cream and butter – insanely rich and creamy. Together with the scones and jam, it was so delicious I wanted to cry.

By the time we got to the pastry segment of the tea, I was running out of room. The selection of bite-sized delectables included a chocolate-dipped meringue, an eclair, a chocolate mousse cake, a Victoria sponge, a Battenburg Cake, and a Grand Marnier cake filled with redcurrant jam and topped with fresh redcurrants.

What a gorgeous afternoon with such delightful company. Thank you, dear Karla, for an experience that I’ll never forget.

Fortnum & Mason Tea Counter

Chinatown

 
Lastly, on my way home, I stopped off at our neighborhood Tesco again. This time, I brought the camera and spent a lot of time in the canned goods aisles. You can see the results below. I bought the canned hot dogs for Jose. I also bought some Fairy “washing up liquid” because all of the wine glasses are dirty and won’t fit in our mini dishwasher.

Can’t wait for tomorrow. This time, I WILL set the alarm clock.

Today I headed down to the Olympia conference center to meet Jose for lunch. We ate at a tiny lunch shop across the street that seemed to specialize in serving the conference crowd. I had a veggie and a chicken samosa. The flavor was pretty good, but the dough was greasy and stale-tasting and the chicken was cut into tiny cubes with the consistency of a rubber eraser. But, on the upside, it was quick and our entire lunch tab came to £7.

I left Jose and took a walk down Kensington High Street. What a neat little shopping area. One block had a concentration of outdoor / sporting / adventure shops. I like the idea of a cluster small shops selling related merchandise. Much better than a single mega-store.

Otherwise, a mix of clothing boutiques, stationers, cafes, kiddie stores and cell phone shops. I browsed around in at a home goods store called Butlers Trading and found a few interesting items. The greatest was a bathtub caddy that spans the tub and has a place for a book, a candle holder and a wine glass holder. Whoever designed that is a genius.

They also had decorative silver-plated rocks, which I’ve never seen before. I held them for a minute, trying to imagine how I’d use them at home, and decided they were just another thing that I didn’t need.

Lastly, they had these cool fake grass mats with fake flowers on them. Irresistible. I bought one for my friend who loves girly cuteness just like I do. When I got back to our hotel, I put it under the vase of daffodils I got from Tesco and now we have a moment of Easter perfection on the road. Just need some chocolate eggs.

Before I jumped on the tube again, I dropped into Marks and Spencer. Always wondered what it was like. Seemed like pretty standard stuff, some modern, some a bit old-fashioned. Everything appeared to be store labels – no brand names. And, of course, nothing in my size.

Next stop, Sir John Soane’s Museum across from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the largest public square in London. Sir John Soane (1753-1837) was an architect and teacher. You can check out pictures of the museum on the internet… unfortunately, they do not allow photography inside. What a marvelous place.

He collected all kinds of architectural elements, artifacts, art and curiosities. The collection is displayed in its original setting just as it was during his lifetime. My words, the photos you’ll see on the web, just can’t do it justice. I guess that’s one of the super powers of an architect – to create a space that makes you feel something when you stand inside of it. I’ll admit, the place actually had me tearing up just a bit. All of the domed skylights, the array of interesting objects so thoughtfully placed, the countless interior/exterior vistas… just go see if you get the chance.

One of my favorite rooms was the Painting Room – a fairly small room with a high ceiling – with the walls covered in paintings. The walls open up like a book to reveal another “page” of paintings behind the first – and open again to reveal a window and an overhead view of his study below. This book concept is such a perfect metaphor because this museum was meant to be an architecture text book of sorts. Due to wars on the continent, it was unsafe for his students to travel abroad to view these architectural wonders first hand.

And, did I mention this museum is free?

What a great day in a great city. But the very best part of the day? Seeing my friend Lindsay.