Pottery Barn

No. 33: Learn a medieval trade

The first language of Tunisia is Arabic, and I have an exotic stamp in my passport to prove it. I’ve spent a week trekking through rock mountain villages; visiting with weavers and potters; riding a spitting, grumpy camel through the Sahara; driving up and down sand dunes with our turban-wearing guide named BuBar. That last bit was a test of faith in my fellow man. There are no paved roads in this part of Tunisia and BuBar’s idea of a comedy routine is making English women think he’s going to roll our car over a slope. I’ve become well acquainted with my seatbelt.

As Indiana Jones as I’m feeling this week, I’m currently met with a most challenging quest. Standing with two British journalists at 6 am before an early morning safari, we’re at a sleepy café and desperate for coffee. A quick look around at the quiet locals sipping their morning drinks reveals this place specializes in black sludge served in tiny cups.

“Tosh, they don’t do milk,” my fellow traveler Vicki groans from beside me.

This places me in a quandary. See, the second language of Tunisia is French and I’m 75 percent sure I know the phrase that will get us out of this mess and into milky caffeine goodness. But memories of German bakers are holding my tongue.

“Ahem,” I cough at the thick-necked proprietor. “Bonjour monsieur.”

I’m smiling, pleased I’ve gotten those two words out. The waiter is looking unimpressed, his hands spread in front of him on the counter like he’s a blackjack dealer and I can’t decide whether to stay or double down.

“Avez vouz du café au lait?” I state as slowly and clearly as possible. I sound like a learning impaired Audrey Tautou.

He takes a long pause to dry his hands on his red striped apron, before turning with a conceding reply of “Oui.”

I am elated. I am a French genius and global translator. I am an ambassador of goodwill, a beacon of hope for the tongue tied, a provider of coffee for your weak, your tired, your humble masses yearning to drink free.

I want to tell the man merci but am too afraid of what might come out, and I sip gratefully from my mug of light-brown coffee instead.

Our PR organizer Ffion finds us there, sitting in a post-caffeine glaze, and escorts us down a crowded street in Djerba where the noisy alleyways are filled with children mixing spices, men weighing vegetables and a group of older gentlemen arguing over a game that looks like chess but with flat round pieces. I think they call it checkers.

I speed up to get around a trio of goats being led by a barefoot boy wearing a Superman T-shirt, and step into a smoothed plot of land with orange and yellow bowls laid out in pretty rows.

“Parlez vous francais?” a thin man with dark skin and cropped hair asks from behind me.

“No,” I respond. “English.”

“That is good. I speak English. I show you my work and maybe you like.”

He’s motioning for me to follow him into what I can only describe as a cave, a tiny dwelling carved into the rock of the mountains. I look over my shoulder to where Ffion, Bubar and the other journalists are taking pictures of a stack of cone-shaped hats, shrug my shoulders, and follow behind.

The inside of the hut is bigger than I would have expected, lined with shelves filled with hundreds of pieces of oddly shaped pottery. It’s dark in the cave, the space actually dug into the ground so that it’s four feet below land level outside, the only light coming from a series of candles strewn sporadically throughout the place. The floor isn’t a floor, it’s sand.

In the corner is a kiln, but not like any kiln I’ve ever seen at my local JCC. It’s an ancient looking monster, breathing fire and sparks from its mouth, as a short, round man in overalls leans over it with a metal rod, twirling a small plate over the flames.

“My family makes pottery here for more than 100 years. I will show you, then you try,” thin man says. Watching skinny and his partner work is like seeing two eight year olds playing double dutch. Their hands move quickly performing different elements, one using water to make a clay from the sand, the other smoothing that clay with quick flicks of the wrist. They’re able to make lattice patterns with a tiny metal hook, creating a texture that looks like the result of a machine twice the size of this Cave of Wonders we’re currently in.

The short one hands me his pole and in a language I don’t understand begins explaining how to turn my arm and make sure the small bowl he’s just created gets fired on all sides.

Stepping out of the space I blink three times and hold my hand up to shield my eyes, taking care not to drop the tray, three small bowls, and incense burner I’ve just purchased.

“You are from England?” my new friend asks as I walk away.

“No, from America.”

“America?” he asks, the last syllable lilting up in surprise. “America is wonderful place, is very free. One day is my dream to go to America.”

I tell him I agree, and wonder how five minutes with a stranger who doesn’t know the difference between Miami and Michigan could make me more lonesome for my country than eight months with a city of people who spend four weeks out of the year there.

Pub Crawl

Surprise! I'm back from a hiatus from my blog! I've spent the last three weeks sorting out real life and moving from London to New York. I am now happily settled in NYC, and picking up my posts where I left off. My 52 adventures in London may be finished, but I'll still be updating here the write ups from those experiences, with maybe some musings from my Big Apple life thrown in as well. This excerpt centers on O'Neills, a pub the girls and I became very familiar with during our time in East London. Enjoy!

No. 32: Get my own local

Halloween in London sucks.

Lauren and I spent the early part of our evening at a noir club in Shepard’s Bush that promised a costume party with a twist. By twist they meant an opening act of a girl sitting in a tub slathering herself with baked beans, and Lauren and I decided to leave before she skipped to the main dish.

I’m disappointed by this, as I assumed the city would be a Pandora’s box of Halloween fun. Every other street lays claim to being the most haunted spot in Britain, and if there are no ghosts flying about, London should at least prove successful in providing some murder-mystery bingo or fancy-dress rave. Instead, my queries to work mates about what they would be doing for the holiday were met with blank stares and questions like “Halloween’s the one with the pumpkins, right?”

Apparently, it’s a Yankee thing.

We’ve dipped into a local pub near our flat called O’Neill’s, which turns into a throbbing disco-tech after11 pm. We discovered the place a few weeks ago at the suggestion of two shifty looking blokes sitting on the corner of our street. Always ask shifty looking blokes where to hang out, they know the best spots to do the heavy drinking.

The first time we visited Lauren became friends with an Essex boy named Matt, who does freelance video editing and looks like he hasn’t eaten a sandwich since Mariah Carey wore clothes. But in the attractive way.

Walking into the place tonight we discover Matt’s what you’d call a regular. Of course, it’s possible it’s only his second time in the joint as well, in which case Lauren and I look like the locals. Either way, it’s beginning to feel a bit like Cheers in the place and I nonchalantly scan the room for Woody Harrelson.

Matt introduces us to his friends Michael and Paul. Michael is bouncing on the balls of his feet too quickly for a proper hello, but Paul decently shakes my hand and begins asking me if America is really like "The O.C."

It is now that I learn what an Essex accent means. Essex is a county of England two steps from Leyton and is generally considered a rougher bit of area than posh West Londoners would ever find themselves in. The speech pattern sounds like a mix between Bert from “Mary Poppins” and the villain in a Bugsy Malone movie.

I’m enjoying the music and the company, even though none of the people around me are dressed in costumes. Paul’s wearing a cardigan and tie, a cute look with his blonde hair and dimples. He looks like a very impetuous history professor. Lauren’s wearing a black and silver mask we bought in Covent Garden from an antique toy shop, and her cheeks are covered with pretty swirls she let me draw on with dark eyeliner. I also shoved a few Styrofoam birds and butterflies in her hair. The effect is whimsical, though she’s garnered a lot of questions about what she’s supposed to be.

“What are you supposed to be?” Paul asks me loudly. I’m wearing a cowboy hat, a sticker that says Bush/Cheney, and I’m carrying an orange plastic gun.

“I’m an American!” I shout back happily.

“Wicked.” Paul’s impressed, and dashes off to order some drinks as a toast to my costuming triumph. I look over to the bar where Lauren is chatting animatedly with Matt. She’s not wearing her mask, a mystery that is answered as Michael dances past me wearing Lauren’s costume piece as well as a dark red cape. Apparently, my friend isn’t the only person he’s thieved from.

Paul is back at my side proudly holding two glasses of liquid. The drinks look purple, but I assume my eyesight’s gone shoddy. Drinks aren’t purple. The only time drinks are purple are if they’re going to cure a cold or are sold in a 7-11.

“It’s a Snakebite and Black,” he says eagerly, as if this is supposed to make me more confident in what I’m about to pour down my throat. The mystery drink is sweet and bitter at the same time. It tastes like lavender bubble bath.

A Justin Timberlake song comes on and Paul begins jerking his shoulders left and right like he’s auditioning for the new revival of “Rent.” He’s tipping an invisible hat and wiggling his legs as he asks me if I want to dance. I’m not really fussed either way, but I’m curious to see what spasm he’s able to twist his body into next, and I follow him to the middle of the bar where a mob of people are promising to help bring sexy back.

I’m bopping my head and squinting for Lauren through synthetic smoke, wondering why the British government would ban cigarettes in bars but allow this glycerine-based fog, when a balding guy with a belly hanging out of his too small T-shirt drops a glass on my foot.

“Hey, watchit man,” Paul insists from beside me.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I insist, hopping off the dance floor with a sticky mess dripping from my foot. I find some soggy paper napkins on a pub table and dab them at my toes. Paul has stayed behind and is now grooving JT style to Whitney belting out “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” I snort and laugh, taking another sip from my rattlesnake drink.

“Hey, what’s in a Snakebite and Black?” I ask a lazy-eyed gentleman leaning on the counter next to me.

“Um, I think it’s a mix of lager, cider and blackcurrant cordial.”

I excuse myself to find the ladies’ restroom.

A View From the Left

No 31: Drive on the left side of the road

It’s a running joke for Zeddy to mock my American driving skills, making fun of my right-side-of-the-road upbringing by holding out his car keys and asking “Shall you drive us today?” I keep threatening that one day I’ll take him up on his offer.

I’m filled with inexplicable road confidence this Tuesday evening as we head out to see Whoopie Goldberg’s new musical “Sister Act” at the Palladium, and when I hear the familiar jingle of keys and a sarcastic request that I play chauffeur, I spontaneously decide to comply.

“Are you sure you know how to do this?”

I nod and try to reacquaint myself with the system of ignition, pedals and gears; though my US license does legally permit me to drive within the UK, it’s been a while since I’ve been behind the wheel.

“Why aren’t I moving?”

“Because you’re stepping down on the brake.”

I’m rolling timidly down the streets of Camden Town, surreptitiously glancing over my shoulder as fellow drivers whiz past me. My hands are shaking and I randomly break out into a fit of nervous laughter. I'm having trouble gauging where I should be in the lane, and find myself veering too far to the left. A parked van honks its horn at me as I narrowly miss taking off its side mirror.

I skid to a halt in the middle of the street outside our destination, and Zeddy takes the hint and offers to parallel park the car for me.

New Do

Last week I was treated to a cut and color at HOB salon for a feature in my company's magazine, Pulse. Here is my hairdo transformation:

Consumer Stress

No. 30: Have a shopping spree at Harrods

The going rate for ostrich eggs seems inexplicably high, especially considering I can’t recall ever having heard of someone actually buying one of the things. But I’m standing in Harrods and unless my eyes are deceiving me, for just £20 one of these babies could be mine.

I’m pretty sure this would be a waste of my precious money, I can’t imagine ever needing an omelette that big, so I pass through the tempting food stalls filled with truffle oils and vintage brandies to find safer ground.

Walking into this beautiful and luxurious mother of all department stores usually gives me consumer stress. Purse-happy buyers could get lost in the mega-store, where everything from leather passport holders to snail fossils can be found on four-and-a-half acres of fluorescent lighting. The place has been handing out their iconic green and gold shopping bags since 1834, and while that may be good and well for the likes of the purchasing elite, I’m afraid the whole thing just makes me want to take a big ole nap.

I explained my Harrods struggle to our features editor Lauren Krotsoky at the office one day. Lauren is very much a girl’s girl, the type of 25-year-old woman who carries a comb and a mirror in her purse, and she found my comparison of the luxury retailer to budget grocer Asda (a place that is trying to beat Japanese subways systems for the record of most people slammed shoulder to shoulder) a bit off.

I have a suspicion my aversion may be due to the untouchable quality of the items on display. A pair of £1 million Stuart Weitzman heels are certainly pretty, but don’t usually fit into my budget. The knowledge that I probably can’t afford most of the wares on offer has most likely contributed to keeping me away from the posh digs, but I’m determined to get my head around this beloved British treasure.

Breezing through the specialty foods section and into a makeup heaven that looks like a Mac pro shop exploded, Lauren and I are met with white marbled floors, cashmere covered shoppers and a scent that’s a mix between Dior’s Cherie parfum and £100 notes. I’m not sure where to head first when Lauren pulls me to a Benefit counter with stacks of eye shadows and lipstick in little cardboard boxes with pictures of artfully drawn pinup girls. Lauren is a sucker for both 50’s nostalgia and clever marketing, and we begin playing with the provided cotton swabs and samples.

“Can I help you pick a color?” asks a burly and tanned man from beside me. He’s wearing a nametag which suggests he works here, though he looks like he would be more comfortable at a Gold’s Gym helping overweight men feel the burn.

“Um, sure,” I say as I sit in a tall stool the Hulk pulls over. He’s rubbing goop into my face and removing the dark eyeliner I applied this morning.

“What colors do you usually like?” he asks me in a thick Bulgarian accent. I point to some browns and he starts pulling products off the shelf, holding out a pink bottle that looks like nail polish.
“We call this Supermodel in a Bottle. It will brighten you up and make your face look fantastic,” he tells me very seriously. Never one to turn down an opportunity to look like Gisele Bundchen, I allow Stanislav to plaster me with the stuff. I have one eye closed as something wet is put on my lid, and with the other I spy Lauren also being taken in by the makeover routine. By the time we’re finished Lauren and I find ourselves standing at the checkout line each holding a respectable pile of eyeliners, mascara and blush.

“Your face does look really pretty Erica,” Lauren tells me as we pay for our items. Perhaps it’s the chemical buzz from all the collagen in the room, but I quickly jot down my contact information on the counter’s sign-up list for future events.

Queen Bee

No. 28: Learn to curtsy
No. 29: Have tea with nobility

...“It’s not required that you curtsy, but it’s certainly an option,” says Naomi, a very nice young woman in a purple suit, who’s been facilitating the opening of a care home in Berkshire for individuals with learning disabilities. She's in charge of myself and a handful of journalists, as we stand around waiting for the arrival of the day's official ribbon-cutter, Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom.

I’ve always assumed I would eventually need to perfect my curtsy, as I’ve known since childhood I would one day become close confidant to the royal family. But the task has been thrust upon me with little notice, and I’m feeling under prepared. It was just two weeks ago when Justin asked me if I would like to meet the Queen. I told him I would have to think about it.

Naomi’s demonstrating a small dip of the knees and bowing of the head that looks like a ladylike version of davening, as I stand with three other gentlemen reporters who look about as interested in our tutorial as a group of Cistercian monks might be in a subscription to J Date.

“So we’ll have you in the main room for when the Queen takes her tour of the centre, and then you’ll move behind her as she goes to the different rooms.” I nod my agreement, trying to nonchalantly bend my knees and practice the move, worried that the action will come off looking less regal and more like I’m a demented flamingo...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12253/jewish-news-jn-598-130809/?no_login=1

What's Up, Holmes?

No. 27: Help Scotland Yard solve a crime

The Metropolitan Police are in our office and I’m feeling two things:

1. Fear that I’ll be deported
2. Elation that I can use this on my list

When I put Scotland Yard down as a task, I had to Google the term to find out exactly what it was. My only previous knowledge of the place is the time I was in a high school production of Jekyll & Hyde and Scotland Yard was a lyric in the show’s big ensemble number. I assume the agency doesn’t have much to do with a scientific genius who is a polite doctor by day and a murderous schizophrenic by night, and my research tells me I’m correct.

First of all, Scotland Yard has nothing to do with Scotland. I know, I was surprised as well.

Scotland Yard is the name of the street where the Metropolitan Police headquarters was originally built in the 1800’s, earning it a very confusing nickname.

Secondly, Sherlock Holmes never actually worked for the unit. He was more like the annoying tramp outside who wouldn't go away. This discourages me, as I was looking forward to donning a pipe and deerstalker cap for the mission. A bit of reading, however, uncovers a fun piece of detective trivia. Apparently, the Met’s national IT system for crime inquiries is known as the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Also, Scotland Yard has a training program called Elementary. This tells me the Met boys are a group with a sense of humor, and I figure I can still use my props.

A handful of colleagues and I are walking into the conference room we use for editorial meetings, and I’m puffing imaginary smoke rings from a plastic pipe care of Cory. He sent it to me as a joke before I left Florida, and I’m impressed at his foresight.

“Why do you have a pipe?” Justin asks me as we sit at a long table.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah. Ask a stupid question.”

A detective enters carrying a bulky black case and begins unloading complicated tools like he’s a British MacGyver. We’re being fingerprinted today in connection with a murder conspiracy. Seriously. An anonymous reader sent our paper a death threat against one of the community’s Jewish leaders, and anyone who touched the thing has to be dusted. This of course includes me, as I immediately snatched up the note as soon as I heard there was something sensational about it.

We’re now faced with proving to this bloke that we aren’t all part of some assassin club, and I’m feeling very much like the Dean Keaton of these unusual suspects, as I seem to be the only one concerned that we haven’t actually contacted the individual in question to warn him to look out for any falling pianos.

The officer is showing us how to make our markings on the forms he’s passing out, and I’m rolling my palms in the ink and pressing them onto the sheet as firmly as I can. When I’m done, there’s a big, black Erica hand on the paper. It looks like I’ve created some morbid first-grade turkey art.

“We’re doing a minstrel show!" Zeddy says from beside me, waving his blackened jazz hands. I think he’s crying out for attention, he’s very jealous of my pipe.

As we hand in our completed papers, wiping the ink off our fingers with paper towels, a niggling thought refuses to go away. As much fun as the messy experience was, I’m a tad disconcerted at my debut into the world of international intrigue. I’m a single woman who has recently traveled to the Middle East and has Arabic stamps in her passport. I have a profile with the Venetian police and I’ve just been fingerprinted by the British authorities. I give it three days before someone catches on and I’m thrown in the clink.

I convey my worries to Zeddy, who comforts me by stealing my pipe and calling me Dear Watson for the rest of the afternoon.

This is Bonesy. He's something of a celebrity around the Jewish News offices. Frequent readers will remember his first appearance as a supporting actor to my performance at the Globe. Click here.