neighbours

There’s an Australian soap opera always advertised on tv here, called “Neighbours.” It looks really intense and dramatic, and when I’m not busy thinking about the whole extra “u” thing in lots of English English words, I think that I should really try and get into some Aussie soaps.

So the thing about neighbors- Last night Bryan and I had drinks with our neighbors in the flat basically across the hall from us, and up a few stairs. Through the complicated machinations of modern renovations on old-ass buildings, the terrace of this flat looks directly into our huge bedroom window. So becoming friends has its complications. For one, when I listen to them discuss the pronunciation of “junta” over morning tea, while I am trying to sleep late as usual, I can’t be judgmental. Likewise, if Bryan and I decide to get amorous (yeahhhhh), we’ll have to close the window. And you know there’s no AC. Sweat-city! Okay, now I am just being gross.

What I am really trying to say here, is that I will never cease to be amazed by the good fortune of having neighbors I like. And I will also always be astounded by my own personal inability to ever make the first move in forging these relationships. When we left Brooklyn after years of living there, the most traumatizing part of the goodbye was seeing our neighbors sitting on the stoop of the brownstone as our cab pulled away. Who now would bring us cookies and invite us over for dinner, laugh at Bryan’s bad jokes, let us play children’s games, lend us Korean bootlegs of tv shows on DVD, ask me how work was going, and look out the window and get excited when they spotted us coming in? Who would we talk about our new landlord with, and give our spare keys to? Could we stay friends without the bond of geography?

But true to form, I never even tried to introduce myself to these new neighbors here in London. Apparently my default setting is avoidance. Four years ago, Laura brought us cookies and her family won us over immediately with their kind, generous and joy-filled ways- and I should have saved that lesson of reaching out. But Sara and Ben beat us to it. As we sipped rosé on their terrace (while I stared at my bedroom window), we learned a lot about this British-American couple, his wig-wearing ways of being a barrister, and all the fun places they recommend we travel locally. And three glasses in, I said (and should be forgiven for being tipsy), “One of the hardest parts about leaving NY was leaving our neighbors. I’m really happy we met you.”

Incidentally, their flat is seventeen times more awesome than ours.

precious time i will never get back

Sometimes I wonder how many minutes of my life have been spent trying to separate the opening of a plastic bag- specifically those flimsy, clear bags in the grocery store you are supposed to put your produce or rolls and pastries in, and sometimes also garbage bags. It feels like I stand there for hours, using my thumb and forefinger in a rapid back-and-forth motion, like trying to unsuccessfully start a fire with two sticks. Please bag, I say to myself, please open. People are staring. That woman came here after me and she is already 4 apples and 3 green peppers ahead of me. This is ridiculous. Why won’t you open? What space-age technology is responsible for the fact that you come off the production line in a very firmly closed position? And then ten minutes into my ongoing failure, during which time my increased hand sweat has no doubt further thwarted my futile efforts, I realize I am trying to open the sealed bottom portion of the bag. So sometimes I forgo the bags, and I just avoid eye contact with the checkout cashier when all my loose limes and potatoes and garlic bulbs are rolling down the conveyor belt willy nilly.

i don’t know if you can tell, but i have dark skin

I am 8 days late here, but that’s because my friends in America are unreliable. Give a sister abroad some pop culture!

http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=177061&title=baruch-obama

the weekend went something like this:

Birthday party for a 1-year old, Shakespeare in the Park, The Dark Knight, learning PowerPoint.

Friday night Bryan’s colleague and his wife had a lovely little get-together for their 1 year-old daughter, Ameera’s, birthday. They live nearby, and had prepared delicious Indian food. It was a quite a departure from the last 1 year-old birthday party we attended, which included escort cards and seating, a sit-down meal, and hired entertainment. But that was Long Island, and look- I take all kinds.

We then headed to London’s most glorious park one block from us, Regent’s Park, for Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night performed in the park’s open-air theatre. In case I forgot how posh this area of town is, this is like Wolf Trap, although smaller, on steroids (some of you will get that reference). There were wine tastings, white linen tablecloths by the concessions, and the most discerning audience members this side of the Thames. It was beautiful and borderline out of my league. Well, that’s mostly because Shakespeare’s plays are filled with so many “wherefores” and “how nows” that I have to pay extra close attention. It’s like I even have to be sober.

Saturday night we saw The Dark Knight with friends. The theatre we went to is massive, and in Leicester Square (London’s slightly less obnoxious version of Times Square). These are the things I love about cinema in the UK (yes, you have to say cinema):

• You pick your seats before-hand. It could not be awesomer.
• A fun-loving rowdy crowd on a Saturday night claps at everything, including the ratings warnings, copyright notices, and triumphant scenes in the movie.
• People seem polite. I haven’t seen anyone talk on their cell phone to their babymama or landlord yet during the show.
• The bathrooms are inside the same room the film is shown!

Things I don’t like:

• They don’t put melted, processed, chemically-created butter on your popcorn. It’s just dry.

–

It is warm in London. The kind of warm where you spend a lot of time thinking about how there is no air conditioning or screens on windows and your body temperature is such that you don’t want to move, but often have to move to smash bugs against your institutionally-white walls, since, well, there are no screens on the windows.

some of my favorite britishisms

Everyone knows “cheers,” “brilliant,” and “lovely.” I always sound like the biggest poseur when I attempt to use any of those casually in coversation.

But here are some other faves:

• rubbish – Not just the trash you throw out, but people, ideas and demands are rubbish too. It’s all just rubbish.
• loads – Ooooh I love this! British people use it ALL the time the way Amerikanskies use “tons” or “a lot.” As in: I heard in America there are loads of nail salons.
• bits – I love this too! Used the way Amerikanskies use “pieces” or “body parts.” Like, Orange Juice with Bits (pulp), or Join a gym to get rid of your jiggly bits.
• called – No one is “named” something, they are “called” something. My husband, called Bryan. I have a friend called Gwyneth Paltrow.
• one off – Used in so many situations, I don’t even know… I think it means “one of a kind,” so you can have a one-off tailored suit, or a one-off event. Maybe some real Anglophiles will correct me.

my physical defects

A few people have mentioned to me they are “jealous” of our recent travels. One friend suggested maybe I post something that wouldn’t instill envy in a reader. Ask, and ye shall receive.

1. I’m only 5′3″.
2. I have a cowlick above my forehead. It’s so pronounced that my hair parts in a perpetual 80s wave and I almost broke up with my stylist in Brooklyn because she said cowlick = no bangs. You will give me Reese Witherspoon bangs Lina, or I am QUITTING YOU. So she did.
3. Nobody is clear on the color of my eyes. Including me. And the DMV.
4. I have a “hole in my chest,” like my brothers. I am not sure the proper terminology since the way I just described it sounds like we were all gunned down by a roving group of marauder play-groupers in our leafy suburban enclave of Lyon Village when we were young. Actually, apparently it is called “pectus excavatum” and just typing those words made me throw up a little in my mouth. And we all have it subtly, hopefully, so that’s not so bad. But there was a rumor when we were little that a neighbor kid had it so bad he had to get surgery to have his sternum cracked outwards. Even sadder, there are a million youtube videos spawned by boys with worse versions of this (for example http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpUcFNCkQpk&feature=related). Oh life.
5. My ears border on freakishly small.
6. If I reach all the way into my belly button, it sends a terrible shiver through my pelvis. I thought everyone had this, but the other day Bryan told me I was crazy and jammed his finger into his bellybutton for proof that he is not afflicted. He also told me that pelvic shivers are no excuse not to clean my bellybutton. But I think they are.
7. Look, I am not saying this is all my mom and dad’s fault. But it is.