Honoring Anarchy

No. 38: Learn who Guy Fawkes is

“I’m here to celebrate the invention of the Fox Trot!” I exclaim as Zeddy pulls his car into an old farm house.

“Your grasp of British history is truly astounding.”

Walking up a gravel road the sky is the kind of dark black you can only find in a city where smog makes stars non-existent. I’m breathing in and out, watching the little clouds of smoke my breath forms on the air, and pretend I’m making cigarette smoke rings.

Zeddy, who’s smoking an actual cigarette, stamps out the butt before we walk into the brightly lit farm house that is serving as party headquarters on this cold autumn night.

“Happy Guy Fawkes Day!” says an over enthusiastic wait staff who takes our coats as we enter the converted barn. The room is full of people sitting at picnic tables and chowing down on hotdogs. There’s a bar in the back with open bottles of wine, and Zeddy and I turn in that direction.

“So, in 1605 a man named Guy Fawkes formed what we call the Gunpowder Plot,” Zeddy says as he pours me a glass of pinot. “He wanted to overthrow the British government by blowing up the House of Parliament, and he stored barrels of gunpowder under the place, ready to blow it to bits on November 5.”

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” says a familiar-looking man as he walks up and pats Zeddy on the back.

“Good evening Dan, thanks so much for the fizzle,” Zeddy says, holding up his glass in a mock cheers.

“Hello,” the man says, extending his hand to me. “I’m Dan Patterson.”

“Oh yes, of course, we met a few months ago at the charity dinner,” I say, setting down my glass and shaking Dan’s hand. “I’m Zeddy’s new American colleague.”

“That’s right. And how are you finding our country?”

“I’m finding it very cold.”

“Yes,” he replies with a laugh. “It is that.”

“Erica’s writing a column for the paper, she’s doing all sorts of British-ey things,” Zeddy says while swirling his glass.

“British-ey things. Like what?”

“You know, letting her teeth fall out and all that.”

“Actually, I’m a bit stuck; I don’t think my last few pieces have been very entertaining.”

“We’re sending her to Israel next week,” Zeddy adds. “To help her get some inspiration.”

“Israel? That’s fantastic,” Dan says, turning to me. He then looks confused. “What’s so British about Israel?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply. “But it feels very exotic, and I imagine the English to be very exotic.”

“Exotic? Are we exotic Zeddy?” Dan asks.

“Mmm, yes, quite.”

“Fireworks outside in one minute everyone,” the harried-looking wait staff shouts.

“Zeddy, you didn’t finish explaining why you celebrate some guy trying to blow up your parliament,” I say as we head outside. It’s gotten colder and I pull my scarf tighter around my neck as someone starts handing out boxes of sparklers.

“Because, we like fireworks,” he says, lighting up his own sparkler and helping get mine started. My cell begins to vibrate and I juggle the fiery stick in my hand as I pull out my phone from my pocket.

“It’s a text from Lauren,” I explain, reading her message. “Zeddy, she got the job!” I shout, as an explosion of our-parliament-didn’t-burn-down fireworks erupts over my head.

Identity Theft is Unladylike

No. 34: Dine with a lord and lady

I’m at the Dorchester Hotel with Zeddy, shaking the hand of someone whose name sounds very familiar. Standing in patent leather heels that are making me taller than most of the men in the room, I’m talking to someone named Dan Patterson and his very nice, much shorter-than-me wife. When they walk away wishing me a cheerful stay in London, Zeddy tells me he was the creator of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”

I realize I know the sound of his name because I’ve heard Wayne Brady say it so many times at the end of the show, when the comedians read the credits in the style of mobsters or toddlers or some other inane thing Drew Carey can come up with.

Blast! I love mildly famous people, and now I’ve lost my chance to be impressed and gape at the man.

Zeddy texted me last night inviting me to this event, telling me it would be an excellent subject for my next column. I’m curious as to why he thinks a Jewish charity dinner qualifies as a typically British experience, but after he told me there would be fancy people and smoked salmon salad I conceded.

The party is at a posh hotel on Park Lane. In the British version of Monopoly, Park Lane sits on the little blue square where Americans typically find the Boardwalk, which seems reason enough for me to tag along. Also, my social calendar of late has been restricted to e-mailing my mother the weather updates and watching old episodes of “Coupling” on my laptop with Lauren. We’ve yet to purchase a television, since we’ve discovered that this country charges a tax to watch TV, something that makes us feel very revolutionary. Unfortunately, we don’t have the money right now to buy spare TV sets for dumping in the Thames.

“There’s Lord Janner,” Zeddy whispers next to me conspiratorially, knowing full well how excited I’ll be to stand near someone with the word Lord in front of their name. I’m doubly gleeful, as I’ve had occasion once before to speak with the tiny and graying man Zeddy is pointing to, however unsuccessful our brief phone call may have been.

I was sitting at my desk a few days ago when Justin handed me a phone number on a slip of paper and asked me to give Lord Janner a call at the house.

“You want me to call his house? The house of a lord?” There were so many things wrong with this sentence I couldn’t pick where to begin. At the very least, I was positive this kind of phone call required a week’s training in the proper etiquette of how to speak to someone with such a groovy name.

“Not his house,” Justin replied with a short laugh. “The House of Lords.”

Oh.

“Ask him about the Holocaust Education Trust’s extension project.”

I dialed the number, tapping my pen on my notepad as I listened to the ringing, my brain a Victrola repeating the name of the paper I work for, lest I forgot.

“Hello there?” asked a voice shakier than Grandpa Simpson’s.

“Um, hi, yes. I’m the Jewish News.” Shite. “I mean, I’m with the Jewish News. My name is Erica.”

“Oh yes, hello Erica. How have you been, dear?”

“Um, I’m fine? I was hoping you could give me a comment on the Holocaust Center’s extension,” I finished, remembering at least half of the words I was meant to use. I was relieved when he seemed to understand what I was asking for and started speaking in circles about what a wonderful center it was and how much he despised those blasted Nazis. The conversation was confusing but charming, and I immediately liked Lord Janner.

Walking purposefully up to him and eager to make a successful face-to-face impression, I’m smoothing out my purple lace dress and wondering if I should bow or salute. The room is very grandiose, with deep crimson carpets and golden chandeliers, and I feel a bit underdone. Several of the ladies are wearing feathery hats, and I’m reminded of the time my Baptist Grammy wore her Easter bonnet to my bat mitzvah.

“Lord Janner, this is Erica, the newest member of our team,” Zeddy announces. Lord Janner is standing about a head below me with a splash of thinning hair, repositioning a red poppy on his lapel. He looks up, his wrinkled face brightens, and he generously grasps my hands.

“Nice to see you again, how is your family?”

I comfort myself that however I come off now, I’ll probably still get another chance to make a first impression the next time I meet Lord MaGoo.

“I’m well Lord Janner, it’s very nice to see you.”

Zeddy and I begin walking into the dining hall with my new pal, moving past champagne-laden waiters and into the main area of the party, when Lord Janner stops in front of a dark haired woman in a black and gray Chanel suit.

“May I present my sister,” the erstwhile Lord tells me. “This is the Jewish News, isn’t that wonderful?”

“Hello,” she says in a clipped accent, taking my hand in that way where only the tips of our fingers touch. “I’m Lady Morris.”

Unfair. I bite my lip before I can shout at her for stealing my name, as Lord Janner motions for one of the cocktail waiters to bring me a glass of fizz. Identity theft aside, I decide that of all the Queen’s men, Lord Janner is my favorite.