Cliff Notes

So, I haven't written in a long time. Late June, to be precise, at which time Bree all but cut off his thumb and plans of possum-proofing our house had to be consequently abandoned.

But chastened into blogging again by the conscientious writing of Persephone and Maryam, two people I don't know at all but whose blogs I enjoy, I am starting up again. If they can do it amid guest house and romantic sagas, I can certainly find some time. So here are the cliff notes to the last few months:

1. On July 4th my grandmother passed away. I feel I need to get this out right at the start, so there are no awkward silences and shuffling from foot to foot later.

2. I've been working on a show called "Decision House." It places couples on the verge of divorce in a house with therapists for 3 days, at the end of which they decide to stay together or part ways. Most should split up. Invariably, they decide to stay together.

3. My friend Emily is moving to Boston. And I'm sad.

4. Today, it was 112 degrees where I live. I have reason to believe hell will be somewhat like this.

5. My quest to purchase wallpaper has proven way more difficult than I had assumed.

5. My fig tree seems to surviving, if not thriving in, the heat.

Rubber Band Man or "I Didn't Sign Up For No One-Thumbed Husband"

I have a one-thumbed husband. Well, actually, he's two-thumbed, but only one works right now.

On Monday, which was eons ago, all his thumbs functioned. But then I went to Tara's for a glass of wine. Feeling domestic (or just thirsty), Bree decided to wash a wineglass for himself. The stem broke, impaling his palm, and I got a call: "Nat, I cut myself, and I can't move my thumb."

I won't disgust you with graphic details. Suffice it to say, we made a very dramatic entrance into the ER, bloody paper towels trailing behind us. The people who were there for the emergency head or stomach ache, looked us over suspiciously and moved a bit further back. We sat down and waited.

We were expecting a couple of stitches and an admonishing pat on the back. So when Bree emerged at 2:30 am with a cast up to his elbow, I was naturally surprised. Apparently, in a bout of exceptional aim and horrid luck, he'd severed the tendon in his left thumb.

The following day, we were referred to a top Beverly Hills reconstructive (plastic) surgeon. The waiting room was posh - two types of tea were served - and the clientele were predominantly female, awaiting their new noses and breasts. We should have known it was going to go downhill right then and there. The very qualified doctor quickly set up a date for the surgery, only to inform us she didn't take ANY insurance. However, she would cut us a great "cash" deal, if we were so inclined. We were not so inclined.

The rest of the day was spent trying to track down a doctor who did take our insurance and could squeeze us in before August. Find him we did, and Thursday morning we arrived at the outpatient surgical facility.

Several hours later, Bree returned, groggy, with his thumb held down by a snazzy, green rubber band. As we headed out to the car, his nurse had a final warning. "Don't use it as a sling-shot," she said.

Family of Four

Our family has grown by 25%. But before you run out to buy baby clothes (Mom, Dad, I'm talking to you) you need to learn a bit about our new family member.

He his aristocratic of birth, fiercely protective of his space and a bit of a loner. His complexion is dark, with some glorious streaks of crimson and cobalt, and he is highly ornamented. He doesn't eat much, prefers to go "au natural" all the time, and he took to water like a fish.

We were going to name him Herbert, but once we laid eyes on him, we knew he needed a more fitting name.

Presenting Hébert (pronounced "Ay-bear") Fishilton III.


Welcome.

Back To School

End of Summer by pmorgan

I have some terrible news. My summer vacation is over.

For those of you not in the know, I've been on hiatus. Hiatusing is much more fun than simply not having a job. When you're "out of work," the responsibility to find gainful employment rests squarely and heavily upon your shoulders. To look for work and not find it makes you question your self-worth. Don't look for work, and you are a loafer and a freeloader.

The hiatus frees one of such constraints. It allows you to enjoy your time off with the vague promise of work at the other end. The word "hiatus," itself, implies a sort of dignity. A maturity beyond the mere "vacation."

I must say, I've used my time off well. I went to three European countries, redid my patio, saw a few movies, read, put together 75% of a puzzle, taken my dog for some bonus walks, watched lots of bad TV, caught up with friends, cleared out the guest room, and had a birthday party.

But, hiatus being hiatus, and not straight-up unemployment, I always knew that one day the phone call would come, and my services would be needed once more. So back I go, making the world a more entertaining place, giving television audiences everywhere something to watch.

How ironic, that the call came on the first day of summer...

All About My Mother

My mother unofficially collects animal figurines. If they are broken or damaged, they take a special place in her heart.

When my mother is tired, she says she can only speak Russian.

My mother rarely drinks alcohol, but when called upon, she can drink most people under the table.

My mother makes amazing food, though she says she can't cook.

My mother loves things that sparkle.

My mother enjoys the theater, but classic ballet has been known to bore her.

My mother understands things about taxes. I think there should be some kind of award for understanding things about taxes.

My mother used to play volleyball.

My mother survived the World War II blockade of Leningrad.

My mother loves colors. The brighter the better.

My mother doesn't mind flat soda.

My mother loves cheesecake.

My mother played the accordion as a child.

My mother always falls asleep in front of the TV.

My mother hates her birthday. And I say it's silly - because with each passing year she gets wiser and more beautiful.

Happy birthday, mom!

A Fond Farewell and Ten Things I Know

Some time ago, while I was trying to come up with a new blog identity for myself, I was challenged to come up with a list of ten things that I think define, or at least describe, me. And a challenge it turned out to be. After weeks of thinking, I still couldn't come up with 3, let alone 10 bullet points of Nat. Do I really know so little about myself? Or do I just have trouble focusing? Perhaps its a bit of both. But really, think about it - it IS very difficult to distill one's sense of self to a list.

As it so often happens, I've put the cart before the horse, and actually come up with a new blog title. No longer is Nat's Dynomite Blog cruising cyberspace (goodbye, my first blogging attempt - I will always remember the times we had together). In with the new, the shiny and bright, the sophisticated reference...

But before I send out the "I Have Moved" cards, a quick look back at why I started here, and an attempt to finally galvanize, dutifully, in list form, why it is I'm going where I'm going.

Nat's Dynomite Blog was born out of boredom, and the attempt to appear busy while having absolutely nothing to do at work. As so many ventures built on such frivolous foundations, the blog was quickly forgotten, left to collect cyber-dust in some cyber-closet. Several years later, I came across a blog written by an American woman living in Marrakesh, and became engrossed with her stories. Perhaps I, too, could send some essence of self out there, through my written words. And so the blog was picked up again, not as a casual diversion but as a mode of expression and a chance to share a bit of myself with the world outside.

With such lofty goals, I needed a loftier label, so my inner search for a new web identity began. And that brings me to my list, which may or may not explain why A Convergence of Words fits me far, far better. Who am I, in 10 lines (or less)?

1. I am a writer.
2. I am also an avid reader. As such, I enjoy references to literary works and authors.
3. I have a dry sense of humor. Many of my friends and family call it sarcasm.
4. I love colors - especially in wild, unpredictable combinations.
5. I am married. I am in a relationship with a person who understands my idea of "self," and often says things that can clarify it for me.
6. I love travel and the richness other cultures. Having been born in a different country than the one I live in, I appreciate the beauty that our differences give to the world.
7. I am a bit of a snob, proudly using overly-convoluted phrases like "having been born in a different country than the one I live in" just because I can.
8. I adore animals.
9. I am contradictory - spontaneous and exacting, laid back and willful. I am a Gemini.
10. I believe that you can tell a lot about people by the friends that they have. Based on my friends, I think I'm doing just fine.

So there it is, in no particular order. The list is in no way complete - which means that it also has some extra fat. But perhaps the best way for us to get to know each other is not through bullet points and phrases, but through the entries around this one. I do hope you'll stick around and read on...

My Father's Son

For many years, my father was vastly outnumbered by the women in our family - he had a wife, a mother, a mother-in-law, a sister-in-law and a daughter. Even his cat and dog were female. The Y chromosomes were vastly under-represented.

Being an only child, I am the son my father never had. What that meant was that for my 5th birthday I got a bike and a bow and arrow set. I happily went around shooting everything in sight. I also learned to fish, fire a b.b. gun, and know the difference between a ratchet and a drill and which side of the hammer to use.

My father is a graphic artist from the "old school," a man who creates signs as well as designing them. One of my most prevalent childhood memories is helping him mount letters in our basement workshop.

Certainly there were areas my dad couldn't help - the social gossip of my friends never interested him, fashion and shoes bored him to tears, and when a boy broke my heart it was my mother who talked me off the ledge. But as I think of my dad today, it is with smile of gratitude for giving me the skills, and more importantly, the confidence to refurbish our patio all by myself.







Here's hoping he'll get to sit in and enjoy it soon. Happy Father's Day!

Learning to Screw

Image by MimiLimi

First, let me explain that we had been invaded by opossums. They moved into the crawlspace beneath the roof and set up house. The day we saw noses and feet coming through our air conditioning vent, we knew we were in trouble.


Image by shouldbecleaning

Fortunately for us, having had their babies, our squatters have decided to move on to greener pastures, or homes where they are welcomed into the living room with open arms and promises of food. So we wasted no time in 'possum-proofing our house. It seemed simple enough on the face of it - some vent covers, a few flathead screws and a ladder. It would take a couple of hours, at most.

Fast forward...

a debate is brewing between Bree and me as to whether learning to screw has more to do with practice or the right tools for the job. The argument is moot, as we have neither. The space is too small for us to use the drill that was going to make this job a jaunt through the construction zone. We (and by "we" I mean Bree) are doing it all by hand. The one hole I've made is so large that stucco has crumbled and the screw no longer holds. Week 2 of Project Possum is dragging on, with us no closer to the end.





Screwing, we've learned, takes skill. And practice, and occasional bloodshed.



But if you just stick to it, and try and try again, you may actually learn to do it right - and the benefits of screwing well are many.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Change is in the air. I can feel it, urging me to renew, add a dash of color here, a coat of paint there. So it is perhaps my redecorating frenzy that is making me question the name of my blog.

That, and my friend Kate, who informed me that she can no longer look at the word "dynamite". And she's not wrong. Dynamite, while a fine word in and of itself, is not descriptive of me. Not that I don't think I'm OK (back off, all you preachers of self-affirmation), just that...

Is a blog in search of a name less of a blog? A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but would nevertheless be far less attractive if it were renamed "manure," don't you think?

So what should I call myself? Sure, the answers are probably within, but in the meantime, I'm open to any and all suggestions.

Happy Birthday To Me

I know it's not "cool" to congratulate yourself on your own birthday. You're supposed to wait until somebody brings it up, smile demurely, blush, thank them, or, if you're a woman over 30, explain that "I HATE my birthday."

Unfortunately, I just can't do it. Never could. I LOVE my birthdays - el oh vee ee them. I start counting down about a month in advance and as it gets closer, drive everyone crazy with the following exchange:

Me: Guess what?
Them: What?
Me: It's ____ days 'til my birthday!

Rinse and repeat the following day.

Why do I love my birthday so? Oh, let me count the reasons.

1. It's a day that's uniquely yours. Unlike Christmas, Hanukkah, or Labor Day, this day is for you and you alone. Even the people who share the same date of birth can't rain on this individual parade. Their birthday is theirs. Yours is yours.

2. Everyone has to be nice to you that day. And if they're not nice, you can tell them so. It is, after all, your birthday.

3. It's an excuse to gather your friends around you, eat and drink too much.

4. The aforementioned friends generally bring presents.

5. There's cake. And cake is good.

6. The alternative to having birthdays is, well, rather bleak.

7. You've gained an extra year of knowledge, memories, joy, sorrow, wisdom. You've lived.

Oh, were you expecting 10 reasons? Or some other, even, logical number? Well, you'll have to live with 7. That's all I feel like writing. And I can quit any time I like. It is my birthday, after all.

Color Wheel

Image by Incase Designs


We've decided to paint, do all those home touch-ups that we put off when we're working because we're "too busy." Since I love paint and color, this is not the chore some may think, but a chance to change the mood, the very fabric of our room.

It began when we put the new knobs we bought in Paris on our closet door. Suddenly, the shiny, white walls that had been merely annoying became unbearably shiny, what with antique looking, clay and brass handles. So we'd repaint the closet, no big deal, right? But the closet takes up a whole wall - so if we're creating mess in prepping one wall, moving all the furniture out of the room, sleeping on the living room floor to avoid the fumes, what's three more walls? And trim? And maybe the doors? And we should DEFINITELY fix that little crack before we repaint.

So we've taken on "the Project," with the capital "P" that it now earns. But far from being discouraged, I'm in a frenzy of picking colors and finishes, and noticing that the living room can use an accent wall, and the patio needs repainting. For as much as we love sage walls, a house full of sage walls is just...boring.

So we're bringing our travels, and our dreams of future travels home, as we select a Moorish, breezy palette, with names like River Valley, Saltwater and Orange Peel. Can a new journey be too far in the future?

10 Things We Learned in Europe

Image by Madalena Pestana

And so, our trip has come to an end. We're back in the US, back to the daily grind, the job, the dog (who is all too happy to see us), the Responsibility. But we've come back different, rested, inspired, and, to coin a cliché, more worldly. Here's what we learned...

10. There are no squirrels on the European mainland. We're not sure what happened to them, but they don't seem to exist.

9. Pigeons, on the other hand, abound. And they're all fat.

8. The French have a much healthier attitude towards dogs than the Americans - they neither coddle them, nor assume they're in imminent danger if one enters a café.

7. Similarly, the Europeans have a much more laid-back attitude towards food. Nothing is pumped full of preservatives, cheese isn't pasteurized, eggs sit on non-refrigerated shelves. Yet, miraculously, no one dies.

6. French washing machines are diabolical. Even the French don't know how to operate them.

5. Maps aren't infallible.

4. It pays to learn the team’s fight song when going to a sporting event.

3. The worst moments of your journey will sometimes make for the best stories.

2. You can have meaningful interactions with people, form instantaneous relationships, without speaking a word of each other's language. All you have to do is offer them some bread, or some wine, or simply a smile.

1. Travel makes one thirst for more travel.

An Ode to Maps

I love maps. Those of you who have known me longer and have heard me talk about maps may actually call it more of an obcession. Not the kind that gets people thrown into padded rooms but a healthy love. I have been asked what I think this stems from and the best explanation I could come up with is that no matter where you are, with a map, you know where you are.

Not that I need to always know where I am. I'm perfectly happy wandering and getting lost. As long as I know that I CAN know where I am at the flip of a page. But I digress...

Today we left the Luberon. We were going to drive to Montpellier, where we were catching a train to Barcelona. The drive was going to be beautiful and relaxing, we would meander through villages and gaze at vinyards and poppy fields. We were going to avoid the main, impersonal multi-lane highways.

We'd heard about the trecherous paths woven by Provencal roads. But we weren't worried - we had map #113 to lead us. It was detailed. Very, very detailed. And it worked like gangbusters until we got to Cavaillon.

Once we got there, things became a bit less clear. There was the map, which had detailed drawing of the road we were on, complete with numbers. Then there was the road we were on. Which had nothing to do with the very clear and detailed map. The numbers on the map didn't exist in real life. Neither did the curves of the road. Or the road itself. So we did what any person with a map that no longer works does - we drove on, and hoped to see something, anything that would resemble reality.

There was once a theory where I lived in New Jersey, that if you were lost, all you had to do is keep driving and you would eventually hit a highway that would lead you to your destination. We applied it here, in the south of France and, like all good theories, it worked. In Cavaillon, and again on a round-about somewhere near Nimes, and a third time as we neared Montpellier, where construction had made a the road, mapped or otherwise, inaccessible.

Arriving in Montpellier we congratulated ourselves on our stellar navigational skills. We got some lunch and relaxed, eased in the thought that we had 2 hours before our train, and nowhere to go. We were scott free. We had had been tested and had persevered. We were optimistic. We decided to get some gas for the car. We were idiots.

I won't hurt you, or myself, by reliving what happened next. Suffice it to say, it involved a gas station some 10 miles outside of town, automated pumps that didn't work, automated credit card pads that didn't read our credit cards, a wrong turn down a one-way street, and a 180 turn which involved Bree driving backwards out of an unattended parking garage, "The French Connection"-style. The map, with its well demarkated roads that didn't exist, was tossed on the floor. We had reached the end of the line...

Fast forward (spoiler alert)...

But…we made it. After a LONG train ride to Barcelona, we decided not to tempt fate with more map reading. We caught a cab, the 1000 feet to our hotel.

The Amorous Adventures of Pif

Romance is in the air. That, and rain. When it really starts coming down, we head for the local cafe, which is t he hub of the village, as Peter Mayle has predicted. And, as predicted, the cafe is bustling, filled with tourists hiding from the sudden downpour. The menu listed ice cream and booze, so we got both.

At the table near us, a romantic dog interlude was unfolding. Pif, a spaniel belonging to a local man, and looking shockingly like his owner, had sniffed out a mysterious lady, an exotic beige stranger, who was resting on the cafe floor while her owner sipped cafe au lait and dried off.

Unable to contain his enthusiastic admiration, Pif kept trying to inch closer, to properly introduce himself, while the tourist in question appeared more interested in a quick nap and the occasional dropped cookie crumb. Pif's owner kept trying to contain his charge, but it was a losing battle. Finally, as the other clients thinned out, the beige beauty's owner allowed for a rendez vous.

Pif approached joyfully and some energetic sniffing began. Things seemed to be looking up. But then...being the flighty lady of leisure that she clearly was, the babe decided that mingling with the locals was not on the day's agenda. Truning her well-formed tail to Pif, she went back to snoozing under the table. Pif looked defeated, and returned to his table, still glancing sadly in her direction. What had he done wrong? Where had he come short? It was the same thing endless singles ask themselves during last call on a Saturday night.

But who could blame Pif, who was just a representative for his nation's love of romance? As the rain petered out to a drizzle, our waiter, and English-speaking French man who had spent ten years in New York, convinced us to return to Bonnieux next summer. He would help us find a place to stay at a reasonable rent. He also was willing to provide other services – “If your husband can’t come,” he told me, “I’ll teach you French.”

Ooh-la-la.

10 Signs to Your Hotelier That You’re Not Leaving, Like You Said You Would…

10. You’ve invested in a very detailed local map (#113, if you’re interested).
9. You’ve stopped going “out” to lunch.
8. You’ve bought your own food and are storing it in the hotel’s fridge.
7. You now know your way around the hotel’s kitchen, and no longer need the staff’s assistance.
6. You’ve asked where you can do laundry.
5. Your hotelier suggests sights for you to see. You seem more interested in staying put.
4. Your bags are getting “too heavy” to carry.
3. You offer your hotelier wine, hoping for an invitation to the family lunch in return.
2. The hotelier is now offering you his private stash of wine.
1. You’re in Provence. You’ve taken a good look around you and realized you probably can’t do better.

Way Off the Beaten Path

After a months-long online obsession with a home furnishings store, I was thrilled to discover that the European boutique had a branch in Paris. It was decided that a visit was requisite, no matter what lengths we had to go to, to get there.

I checked a map (one of my other obsessions), and proceeded to convince Bree that it wasn’t that far. Totally walkable. In retrospect, it can probably be said that while my map reading skills are good, the “distance –gauging” isn’t, how shall we say, quite up to snuff.

An hour after we departed for our short jaunt, Bree and I were trudging, sweaty, tired, map in hand, down a boulevard. Long gone was the patter of multiple languages. No cameras snapping pictures of the sights. This was where the Parisians actually live and work.

In an alleyway that looked like a city planner’s afterthought we found my mecca for domestic decorating: Emery et Cie. The store was as lovely as I’d imagined it. Rows of glazed tiles in a rainbow of colors line the walls; intricate wrought iron chandeliers light the path between whimsical furniture. Imagine a settee with a back and arms shaped like branches, or iron cabinet pulls coiled like snails. Rows of paint jars provide for endless color combinations, while hand-printed wallpaper and hand knotted one-of-a-kind rugs complete the look of each showroom. And while they’re not giving their goods away (in fact, we determined it would probably be cheaper for us to relocate and live at the store than to get all the items I wanted), we emerged victorious with shopping bag in hand.

Hot, cranky, but holding our prized possessions, we took the Metro back to the hotel.

Starbucks Should Have Coffee Like This

Image by Zoonabar

This morning we met a couple over breakfast. They were moneyed Americans. The type who live in exclusive communities, drive exclusive cars and stay at exclusive luxury boutique hotels. In “normal” life, it is unlikely that we would have crossed paths, let alone struck up a conversation. But here, in the bowls of world travel, to hear words in a familiar tongue can make instant friends of incidental neighbors.

They were on their return trip from Marrakesh, where their son-in-law is building a golf course in the desert. I try to imagine what this course would look like – an oasis of green amid yellow-white powder. I trust sand traps would be a given obstacle. If your ball went out of bounds, would you have to dig it out of a sand dune? But I digress…

Their assessment of Morocco was such: dusty. A place with inedible food, where even the Arabs speak French. Worth taking a look-see, perhaps, but with a three-day limit on the adventure. I’m not sure what caused such disdain for a country we’ve heard so many wonderful things about. Maybe the boutique hotels weren’t quite a luxurious as they’d have liked. Or the shopping didn’t interest them. Or maybe they were just ready to return to more familiar ground.

Somewhere with less sand and more cafes. “Starbucks should have coffee like this,” mused the wife, sipping her café crème. “But I wonder what they would call it.”

Pi pi a Paris

4/23 - We arrived in Paris via the Eurostar Chunnel Train.



The journey itself was fairly standard, the Chunnel a long, dark tunnel. I"m not sure what I expected, lights, fanfare, a flashing "You are Now in France" sign? We did make two observations: that northern French countryside is quite similar to English countryside, thou I still maintain that French grass is a darker green;




and while Bree never got to view English sheep, he did get some cows and horses along the way.

Paris, itself, is stunning - buildings are old, intricately decorated. We are staying in the Latin Quarter, a maze of tiny, cobblestoned streets with cafes every fifty feet.



As soon as we settled in (i.e., threw our luggage on our hotel room floor), we took off to walk the Seine and see Notre Dame. Both are truly breathtaking.





We even managed to get a tour of the towers of Notre Dame, the last of the day. Sadly, the Hunchback had a day off, but we got photos of some incredible gargoyles.





We had our first pastis, and a waiter who kidded with us, despite the language barrier...



At dinnertime, we settled in to a quaint restaurant. The meal was spectacular, the ambiance great. All was going well until Bree decided to use the restroom. He should have known. Peter Mayle has devoted pages to this contraption that passes for a toilet in France. You are basicly given a spot to stand, and a hole to aim for. But, my friends, that is far from the "traumatizing" part. You see, the flushing mechanism simply floods the entire area with water. Hope you're a high stepper or quick jumper-out-of-the-way...


Image by grünes Fiet

Beyond sights, beyond language, it was the fantasticly shocking way we knew we weren't in Kansas any more!

Rugby Strategy, And the Price of Beer

Image by eymon



Some time between toast and poached eggs, we learned that our hotel proprietor, Dave Davies, is an ex-rugby player. And not just some "I play on weekends with the chaps" variety. A genunie, bonafide rugby player who, as he himself claims, would be a millionaire if he had been playing today.

But he wasn't. Instead, he represented the London Welsh Rugby Club in the 1970s, back when they were still decent. More than decent, actually. One of the top teams, that had developed an innovative new play strategy. So how does a team innovate? In Britain it seems to revolve around alcohol.

You see, back in the days when everyone simply kicked the ball (and for those of you who aren't up on rugby rules, don't worry - neither are we), the captain challenged his teammates to run the ball in. Whoever failed to do so would be buying pints for the rest of the team. Pints costing what they did, and rugby players drinking as they did, this was quite a costly proposition. As no one wanted to be left footing the bill, the team pulled together, running the ball. Which proved quite successful.

And thus, a team strategy was born. The London Welsh went on to some quite successful seasons. Back when they were decent. In the good old days.

London’s Fetish

Image by How can I recycle this' photostream

In America, one thinks of the English as the prim and proper sort, always dressing appropriately, sipping tea, and generally exuding what we like to refer to as “class.” However, in our three days in London we have discovered the Brits’ dirty little secret. A fetish so prevalent that evidence of it litters the streets. It is a city-wide obsession with…gloves.

We have been unable to discover the use of these articles, but discarded gloves of various types and varieties could be found everywhere we went. Under fences (or was that a human hand?), in streets, and by trash bins, we saw work gloves, plastic baggie gloves, and latex gloves (these inspired the most alarm). We saw a policeman preparing to deal with a man on the South Bank donning some bright blue rubber gloves. What was he planning to do that gloves were a necessity? One shudders to think.

One question has been answered in the process though. The Smiths’ song, “Hand In Glove” makes much more sense now.

Pretty Bubbles

One rarely thinks of bubbles when contemplating football. Either variety – American or “the real kind,” as the Europeans would have us believe. However, call out a West Ham United fan on this, and you risk dismemberment, or worse.

You see, the Hammers, with their uniform of burgundy and blue, emblazoned with a bold gold castle and crossed hammers, have chosen a somewhat curious fight song. It is a sight to behold a crowd, 30,000 strong, belting out “Pretty Bubbles” at the top of their lungs as their squad takes the field. Sure, there is some spirited clapping at the end, but being an outsider to the scene made me think that as songs go, their choice did not inspire the fear in the enemy it was meant to.

That said, a football match in England is an amazing experience. The entire stadium shimmers in burgundy and blue. Every seat is filled. The excitement is palpable as the players take the pitch, rising steadily as the match begins. Singing, chanting, screaming. Even a trio of streakers take the field, running a victorious lap before being hauled off by myriad of police and security. Every attempt on goal has the side closest to it rising to their feet, leaning forward, breath bated, waiting to scream out in case of success, or groan in the event of failure.

West Ham United is in a precarious position. Second from the bottom in the England Premiership, the team risks being relegated to a lower league. Therefore, every match is a must-win situation. Fortunately for the Hammers, Everton’s star player goes down in the first few minutes of the match, thanks in part to a not-so-subtle shove from one of the West Ham players. The referee punishes West Ham for this stunt the rest of the match, failing to notice when one of the Everton players blatantly kicks the goalie and finding six minutes of stoppage time at the end of the match. Nevertheless, with Everton’s star down for the count, West Ham gains the momentum, and finishes with a 1-0 victory.



During half-time, a rousing rendition of the team song breaks out in the concourse. I am pressed up against a wall, waiting for Bree, surrounded by about 1,000 rowdy fans swigging beer and singing. “Don’t you support us?” says a short, cap-wearing man near me. There is only one right answer. “Then why aren’t you singing our song?” he demands. It is a challenge, and the wrong response could get me in trouble. Think fast, think fast. “I’m shy,” I babble, hoping for the best. “No need to be shy around me girl,” he leers. Pretty bubbles, indeed.

Melons

Image by 2725

4/19 – 4/20/07
Let’s go back a little in time.

The scene: a small kitchen, where a young man and woman scramble through dishes and lunch on their way out the door.

She, soaping and rinsing, he spoon feeding (ok, fork feeding) pieces of melon to her at high speeds. Will the melon be eaten, freeing the container it was in to be washed in time? Or will she have to stop down and dry for a bit, while the feeding frenzy continues. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat melon again,” she says, gulping down the last piece.

Fast… Forward…

The scene: a large, inter-continental airplane. A young man and woman are seated in a row, five across, waiting for the arrival of their much-anticipated airline dinner. Their last meal, if you will, and bearing all the similarities to prison food that the name implies.

The flight attendant arrives, carrying not one, but two vegetarian meals. She takes hers gratefully. She did special order it after all, and hopes that whatever is on the tray is more edible than the homogenous, identically shaped pieces of chicken her neighboring travelers are munching on.

He, on the other hand, is waiting for his homogenous meal. Therefore, when the flight attendant brings him a dinner, utterly unidentifiable as any food group of this earth, he is less than pleased. “But I don’t want a vegetarian meal,” he pleads. The flight attendant won’t hear of it. There are only so many meals and so many people. And the fact that one of his own neighbors requests and is denied a vegetarian meal, just as the young man is offering to give up his, makes no difference. Leaving the young man only to munch sulkily on the melon slices that came with it.

Time Lapse…

Time has passed. Day has turned to night and to day again. Sun replaced darkness, and little over 30 miles separate the Boeing 777 and London. It is now April 20th, and bleary-eyed passengers are woken to the promise of croissants. Again, the quest fro turning Bree vegetarian perseveres, and we both find ourselves with special meals. By now he’s learned better than to argue.

On the plate? Juice, a bagel-like substance and, yes, a small container of melon.

Roger Daltry and the John Wayne of Italian Spaghetti Westerns

4/19 - We arrived at the airport 3 hours before our flight- plenty of time to check in, request a change of seats (which we were denied, in no uncertain terms), and kick back a few drinks at the airport bar, watching the ever-changing cast of transient drinkers, tying one on before their flight.

Standing in the check-in line, we were chatted up by Robert Woods (http://www.myspace.com/actorrobertwoods – of course), who was on his way to Rome to host the Torino Film Festival. It turns out, Mr. Woods, now 70 and looking not a day over 60, was at one point quite a star on the Italian Western circuit. Perhaps even the John Wayne of his time – we were clearly in the presence of greatness.

Spry, fit, funny and ever the showman, Robert entertained us with stories of travel in the days of yore, the freedoms an American once enjoyed both abroad and at home, and smoking doobies to relax before a flight.

So passed the first few official moments of our trip – proof that talking to your neighboring travelers leads to far more interesting revelations than keeping to yourself. A reminder that travel is as much about the people you meet as the places you visit.

Moments later, going through security, we caught a glimpse of Robert chatting up another young traveler. The same engaging panache, the same storytelling prowess shone from him as he entertained the guy in line and, mostly himself. He was done with us, the whore – but we were happy for the moments he allotted to us. Such is the power exuded by good actors.

Still, fate was not completely done with us. As we prepared to board the plane, we caught a glimpse of what we are 99.9% sure was The Who’s Roger Daltry and his entourage, readying themselves for first class. Only going from LA to London… Our journey has truly begun.

Where Art Thou, Chester Row?

Riding the Piccadilly Line from Heathrow into central London, we met a lonely Italian suitcase. Whether it had decided to extend its vacation, or simply wanted to see London without its rightful owners (perhaps they were slowing it down), the blue valise was riding the tube alone. We were going to strike up an acquaintance, but our stop came, and the travel bag continued on its own path.



We arrived at the Lime Tree Hotel checked in, and set out to explore London right away. The weather, unusually sunny and warm, seemed to be on our side. Our first sightseeing stop was the self-proclaimed, award winning Cornish Pasty Shoppe. Two pasties later, we were off to Buckingham Palace.



It was pretty. It was grand. And very regal. The guards stood very still. We saw evidence of the passage of some royal horses.



I was a wimp for not wanting to run past the guard with the fully loaded AK-47 or even take a picture of him. What a sissy.

Walking down through Westminster, we stopped at the Westminster Cathedral. The mosaics inside were stunning, and no photo could capture the grand scale of the church. Still, we tried. We both lit candles and went on – so much to see!





Walking past Parliament and Big Ben, we headed up Whitehall, where Bree made up for my cowardice by taking a photo of the AK-47 wielding guard at Tony Blair’s “crib,” aka 10 Downing Street.





After our first English pint at the Red Lion,





we crossed Westminster Bridge to the London Eye, a ginormous Ferris-wheel-like contraption that was built for the Millennium celebration. The ride offers spectacular views of the Thames and surrounding sighs.















Jet lag and lack of sleep were catching up to us, and we dragged back to the Lime Tree to get ready for dinner. After checking with the front desk, we decided to check out the Duke of Wellington Pub, for some English food. It was literally around the corner. A 5-minute walk, if that. I checked the map. I noted the directions. I left the map at the hotel…

Forty-five minutes later, after we had walked the better part of our neighborhood, and seen what may have been a dead body (or a glove, we’re still not sure) we gave up. Chester Row DID NOT EXIST. We settled into the restaurant next door to our hotel.

The next morning we checked our map. We had been walking up and down the wrong street.