Erica from America

Brussels Rhymes With Mussles...

2011-12-15T16:23:00.000-08:00

...but you shouldn't order mussels gratin. Despite learning this, I liked Brussels a lot. Mainly because the whole city looks like this:

And this:

Also, they have a royal family that lives here:

More fantastically, Anne of Cleeves, Henry VIII's fourth wife, was born in this building (it's a favorite spot for most people, isn't it?):

The city also has tiny, secret breweries all over the place, with specialty beers you can only find at that spot:

Brussels does have a head-scratcher of a monument; a little boy statue called Manneken Pis, which is the official mascot of the city. It's exactly what it sounds like.

The little guy is so famous, he pops up in plastic form throughout the city. Check him hiding out behind Cory as we enjoy some Belgian waffles:

This lady below is a bit more modest that our Manneken friend. Plus, if you rub her elbow, you're supposed to have good luck. Poor girl's whole arm has just about been rubbed clean off, and I added to the problem.

French Fried

2011-12-08T12:06:00.000-08:00

Je ne parle pas francais. I think I just said I don't speak French. Nevertheless, I love the French. J'adore le francais! I think I just said I like rubber boots.

This was the extent of mine and Cory's language skills during our recent trip to Paris. We were in the land of berets for a week-long trip, with some other fun stops I'll write about soon. During our time in gay old Pa-ree, we took in many sights and did much strolling along the Seine. Like here:

And here:

And once more with feeling:

Of course, we did plenty of eating: steak frites, pan au chocolate, lots of cafe au lait and vin rouge. Here's Cory enjoying some macarons from Lauderee, a French cookie store that was a favorite of Marie Antoinette.

When not snacking, Cory and I tracked down famous literary haunts. The Shakespeare and Company bookstore was a frequent haunt of Ernest Hemingway's, as well as Ezra Pound, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein.

Here's where I have to admit that Cory and I spent a whole day of our trip at Disneyland Paris. Yes, I know this is an unconventional choice. Still, we loved it. Well, I loved it. Cory went along with it.

We learned a lot at French Disney. For example, Mickey Mouse can speak excellent French; Donald Duck cannot. And, for those of you wondering what Disney characters look like in French-i-color, check this out:

Morris Market

2011-12-07T14:12:00.000-08:00

You may recall from this post that I once had a lovely experience with England's morris dancers. For those of you who don't know, Morris is my surname, and so I felt a special kinship with these lively dancers. Today at our local market, we saw a troupe of men dressed in suspenders with bells on their heels. Cory thought they were fancy skydivers, but I knew immediately what they were. Huzzah! It was a bit of old blighty here on our colonial shores.

In other news, it's chilly in DC. Here are some lovely additions courtesy of the Dupont market:

The Winner's Circle

2011-09-18T09:30:00.000-07:00

Does everybody know what the above photo means? It is official: Erica from America (the horse) is a winner. Yes, my equine counterpart has finally won a race. It was all very exciting. Her odds were six to one when she came in first yesterday at Calder. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm happy she's doing her namesake proud. Also, how fun is it that her jockey wears a pink satin jersey?

Anyone who's met my step-grandfather (that means Lauren and Cory) will recognize him in the winner's circle photo at the bottom. Huzzah! For those of you confused by this post, read here to learn more about who Erica from America (the horse) is and how she came to be such an incredibly famous racing horse. No sarcasm, I assure you.

Ou est Eze?

2011-09-14T16:28:00.000-07:00

Cory and I are gearing up for a European adventure next week, of which I will write all about. In preparation, I'll be doing a few posts about our European trek from this time last year. These adventures were not previously written about, as at that point I was still wrapping up my posts about the List of 52. I'm making up for the oversight now!
In 2007, I watched an episode of "Passport to Europe" on the Travel Channel. For those who haven't seen it, it's hosted by a lady called Samantha Brown, a lady I am often very jealous of. She was in Nice for that episode, but half the program was dedicated to a little village just outside Nice, somewhere called Eze.

The place looked magnificent. It was a tiny medieval village on top of a mountain, a place that had remained unchanged for approximately 800 years. I was in love with it. I didn't know how or when, but I promised myself I would one day find myself in that charming little haven.

It was serendipity that finally brought me there four years later. Cory and I were on a Mediterranean cruise that would be making a one day stop at a port called Ville Franche sur Mer. Whatever that meant. I did a bit of research pre-cruise to see if there was anything interesting nearby that we could visit, and was delighted to discover there was. Eze!

For anyone who's seen "An Affair to Remember," you'll recall Eze as the beautiful spot where Debra Kerr goes with Cary Grant to visit his grandma.

Getting up to that mountain wasn't the easiest of tasks. We took an incredibly perilous cab ride around the mountain. Once up there, though, I forgot all about our cab driver nearly careening off a cliff. It was blissful. Check out the photos below, in which I do my best Debra Kerr impression. Cory looks pretty un-Cary Grant in the last photo, however. I snapped his picture once we reached the bottom of the mountain, and I think he was done with my photo-taking by that point.

Here's a video we took of a pretty little spot. It looks like we're in someone's private back yard, but we're not. This is what the whole village looks like. Also, strain your ears to hear Cory warn me about not falling off the mountain. We have a lot of conversations like that.

Accio Orlando!

2011-09-12T15:22:00.001-07:00

Does everyone know the theme music to the Harry Potter movies? Bah bum bah bum bum, bah bum bum, bum bah bum bum bah bum...Please think of that music as you read this. Also, I apologize to those of you who haven't read the books or seen the films. It's going to sound like I'm speaking a foreign language from here on out.

Lauren and I are crazy people. To prove this to ourselves, we decided to turn the premiere of the eighth and final HP movie into a holiday extravaganza. In the past, Lauren and I have shared many a Harry Potter memory together. It's been a while since we've lived in the same city, however, and it has reduced the number of times we can dress up as wizards and frighten our friends. So, last fall we made a vow to each other that whatever else was going on at the time, we would find a way to be together for the last film. And together we were.

We spent the weekend of July 15th in Orlando, deciding that visiting Universal Studios' Wizarding World of Harry Potter was the perfect way to spend our downtime in between frequent viewings of the film. We were those crazies who camped out for the midnight viewing, and we aren't at all ashamed about it. Cory joined us a day into the trip and we got to experience the 3D version, which, unsurprisingly, was a lot like the 2D version.

When we weren't sitting in a movie theater, we were giddily skipping up and down the streets of Hogsmeade. I should note that Lauren and I made a trip to the place last year for the grand opening, so we were seeing it with experienced eyes. It hadn't lost its luster.

Here's a photo of us in the Hog's Head Pub. The Hog's Head Pub! Notice Lauren is drinking a Butterbeer while I'm enjoying a Hog's Head Brew. We have different taste buds.

The theme park has a neat little store based off Ollivander's wand shop from the books. You have to wait quite a while to get in, but it's worth it. Once inside, one person per show gets picked to go through a custom wand buying experience. Lauren and I almost died with excitement when we realized Mr. Ollivander was eyeing her up. Here's a video of Lauren getting fitted for her wand, as all students getting ready for their first term at Hogwarts must. I didn't capture our squeals of joy as we exited the shop, but I'm sure you can imagine for yourselves.

Now, here are some random pics of the trip. Cory weathered a quintessentially-Florida downpour by playing Ms. Packman. Also, enjoy a photo of what I would look like as a Nascar driver. It's in my future, I'm sure.

Virginia, the State of Elizabeth

2011-08-28T14:33:00.000-07:00

Cory asked me two weeks ago if I wanted to go with him to a concert in Charlottesville, VA. I said yes for one reason: The drive from DC to Charlottesville is very, very pretty. I know this because Cory is a big fan of the Dave Matthews Band. This is an understatement. I have no words to describe how much he enjoys DMB. He's like those crazy people who follow The Dead (sorry Becky!). Cory has been to over 200 shows and, because of his fervor, I myself have been to five DMB concerts.

Here's a photo of Cory and I at a Dave concert in London, my first one:

A year ago, we went to a DMB concert in Charlottesville. It's Dave's hometown and he plays there a lot. It's cute; his Mom usually shows up and he chats with her from the stage. The last time we went we rented a car for the trek. This was a wonder, as Cory and I have lived without a car for years. Having a car makes us feel drunk with power. More to the point, I was enamored with the DC-to-Charlottesville drive. It's chock full of pretty scenery. And so, I agreed last minute to this adventure across the state.

One of the best parts of the drive is a stretch called Constitution Highway. I don't know why that's its name, it should really be referred to as Civil War Way. There are all sorts of spots related to battles and homes of Confederate leaders. As you drive along you pass signs describing what significant occurrence happened at that site. I'd like to point out that the sign below, titled Stewart-Lee House, refers to a Stewart man who was of Scottish origin. I come from a family of Stewarts and in this post I talked about how I'm convinced I'm related to the old Stewart-Scottish monarch, Mary, Queen of Scots. The sign describes how this particular Stewart helped out Robert E. Lee. Obviously, he's the black sheep of the family.

Constitution Highway also has leftover canons from some of the battles, just hanging out by the side of the road. I imagine they are unloaded.

Leaving Constitution Hgwy you enter some country roads snaking through Louisa, VA. This area is incredibly beautiful. It's filled with old barns, working farms and plenty of vineyards. In fact, Dave Matthews designed the label for a vineyard here, called Bleinham. We've had a bottle of the vineyard's wine before and, if I remember correctly, I found it tasty. All of this scenery is set against a backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I discovered I love the mountains during a trip to Tennessee, first written about here. I was delighted to discover I could enjoy mountain vistas a bit closer to home, as well.

Here's Cory and I, sitting in the lovely sunshine and waiting for the concert to start:

And now a series of videos I took trying to capture the majesty of the Virginia mountains. It comes off more as me being impressed by green stuff. Indeed, it's a testament to how city-brainwashed Cory and I have become. We were enthralled with all we could do with a car, most important being a trip to a Virginia Wal-Mart. I mentioned in this Utah post how I like to visit WM when I can, as I'm starved for budget shopping in DC. We wandered the aisles of the Charlottesville Wal-Mart, imagining all we could do if we had space for things like hammocks, grills and dining tables. We dream big.

You'll notice in this video that Cory takes a moment to point out some "hard woods." We received a bit of real estate advice from a Louisa cabbie on our trip, informing us that we needed to buy property in Virginia...and that we needed to look for land with hard woods, not pines. We still have no idea what the distinction is, but Cory feels he's now an experienced Virginia tobacco man.

And here I am again, trying uselessly to video the pretty mountains. Oh well. At least professional videographers the world over can rest easy that their jobs are secure.

Earthquake II: Revenge of the Quake

2011-08-23T16:30:00.000-07:00

I hail from Florida. As such, my only knowledge of earthquakes comes from the Universal Studios ride of the same name. With such a vast amount of know-how under my hat, I've never given much thought to how I'd react if actually caught in one of the things. Living in DC now, I assumed I could operate under the same ignorance. Who's ever heard of earthquakes at the White House?

My inexperience was the scariest part of the earthquake that hit DC today: I had absolutely no idea what to do about it. First of all, this is an earthquake was the last thing I thought of when the shaking began. It followed a list of ideas such as:

1.) My neighbor is doing some thorough renovating.
2.) A rogue wave is sweeping the city, threatening to drown us all.
3.) The British are coming.

By the time these options had been considered and rejected, the earthquake was over. I can now report that when faced with the possibility of the Earth opening up and swallowing me alive, I stand frozen in indecision. This does little to recommend my chances of surviving an apocalypse.

Here in DC, the day was only slightly disturbed. The Capitol and Pentagon were evacuated. More importantly, our gym was closed, forcing Cory to miss his racquetball game. Here's my best proof that it even happened:

Joking aside, it was pretty unnerving. Thanks to all the family and friends who checked in to make sure Cory and I were both okay!

In other news, we're about to be hit with a hurricane any day now. I thought I left that sort of behavior behind in Florida...call this the week for wonky weather. Fortunately, my upbringing has prepared me for this force of nature, even if DC is right in what my mother calls the projected "cone of death." If I remember correctly from my hurricane party days, a situation like this calls for emergency supplies of beer, cheez doodles and a wave board. Everybody keep your fingers crossed!

NYC and CKS

2011-08-19T10:04:00.000-07:00

Ta dah! Yes, faithful readers (you know who you are), the time has finally come. It's the "Channeling Kevin Spacey" post! Did the above logo give it away? I've been promising for some time (in posts like this and in frequent real life conversations with Cory) to devote an entire blog post to the off-Broadway sensation that is CKS.

As some of you know, Cory and our friend Elan are the writers of an off-Broadway play. CKS is playing at the St. Luke's Theatre at 46th and 8th on Saturdays and Sundays. Starting next week, the show will also run on Friday nights, and there was a bit of prep work to do for the new schedule. So, off to the city we went last weekend for a quick visit.

Here's the show's stars, Jamil Chokachi (left) and Justin R. G. Holcomb (right).

These guys are a riot to watch onstage, which is good, as it's a comedy. And you don't have to take my biased word for it. Here are a few links to some reviews:

Theater Mania
Backstage

The play's been showing since April and has an open-ended run. As for what's next, I'm making a push for a West End opening in London. Nudge, nudge. For anyone who's interested, here's a link to the play's official site, CKStheShow, and a link to buy tickets on Telecharge.

Before the play opened, Cory and Elan took some publicity photos. I find them humorous so I'm including a few. Here's a candid shot of the two of them writing in Times Square. You know, the spot where most people go to get serious work done.

Here's Cory throwing Elan into oncoming traffic. It's a daily occurrence.

I'm not sure what this is. It troubles me how happy they look.

And, since this post was slightly related to our past weekend visit, here's the lone photo taken over the trip. We stayed with Cory's sister Lindsey in Queens and here we are in a deli bodega. I call this photo "I Have an Abnormally Large Head."

Streets of Philadelphia

2011-08-17T09:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's the City of Brotherly Love. Which is why it was fitting that Cory and I met up with so many friends when we were there one recent weekend. While technically in town for a wedding, we managed to fit in plenty of other friend time, as well as a fair amount of sightseeing.

We stayed at Club Quarters. Nothing too much to report about the hotel, except that its location on Chestnut Street was great. The hotel did have these nifty water machines on each floor, though. There were stacks of new, empty plastic bottles that you could insert into the machine to fill with water. The weather outside was HOT, and these came in very handy.

Friday afternoon before the wedding we shot over to McGillin's, the oldest Irish pub in Philly. Then it was time to go back to the hotel and get pretty for the wedding. I'll let you imagine lots of images here of a Catholic ceremony followed by lovely reception at The Ben ballroom. Mazel tov to Mark and Merydith!

Saturday Cory and I toured Philadelphia. We'd both been there before so we didn't feel pressure to sight see like crazy, which is my usual attitude when travelling. I just realized I spelled travelling the British way. I mean traveling.

We visited City Tavern, which was the tavern folks like G Wash and T Jeff used to hang out at. We got to sample brews made from original recipes of our founding fathers. It felt pretty historic. I was pleased that City Tavern served water in pewter goblets. This photo is titled "Erica Morris and the Goblet of Water." Anyone?

Also, check out Cory's Rocky impression below. Yes, we were those people.

Saturday evening we met up with Becky and Sarah, aka the Forand sisters. You may remember the three of us took an ill-fated trip to Barcelona and Italy in 2009 (read more about that here and here). Sarah's been living in Hong Kong for the past two years and was home for just a few weeks to visit, so I felt pretty lucky to get a moment with her. And Becky of course!

The blurry shot of a man hunched over a stove is our trip to Jim's for a cheese steak. My Dad went to medical school in Philly and assured us this was the place to go.

We spent Sunday with our friends Ben and Kacey, who recently moved from NYC to Philly (first posted about here). We took the pair to Elfreth Alley, the last spot on my list of things I wanted to see that weekend (okay, perhaps I did feel the touring pressure). It's the oldest residential street in the US and was very quaint. I think the others liked it as well. As Ben put it: "This is great. Just think of all the money we're saving by not having a good time."

Fine. We began having a good time. We conducted a thorough inspection of Old City's bars, stopping for some games of darts and shuffle board. Yes, shuffle board. It's not just for seniors anymore.

Check out John Kerry refereeing our game of skee ball.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, here is a video of Cory, Becky, Sarah and I waiting for our cheese steaks at the very normal hour of 2 am. Jim's on South Street makes a tasty steak.

Also, here is a look at Cory taking on the Rocky steps. Note: That is not me humming the Rocky music at the beginning, that is a stranger. Plus, the video cut out on its own at 55 seconds. If it had been up to me, this video would have been even longer.

PS: Please know the camera lens has recently been cleaned and subsequent photos should be much less blurry. Should be.

Country Drawl

2011-08-03T15:03:00.000-07:00

This post is long overdue. A while back, Cory's sister Lindsey (who you first read about here) was kind enough to invite me on her company's retreat. I had no idea what I was getting into, but I happily said yes anyway. Little did I know what an AMAZING experience we were in for.

Welcome to Blackberry Farm. As in Knoxville. As in Tennessee. I'd never been to the land of the Smoky Mountains before, but the trip from start to end was tremendous. Blackberry Farm is a working farm-turned-chic-hotel. Guests there are treated to an outdoorsy retreat that ensures no actual "roughing it" occurs.

Here's Lindsey and I riding the party bus to the farm. We look excited, don't we?

Once at BF, we checked into our room. The place is divided into small home-like buildings. Each "home" has a living room when you walk in. It looked very woodsy.

The rooms were very cute. Each one is decorated differently with plenty of antiques and quaint details.

Food was a major focus here. Blackberry Farms grows all their own food and everything you eat, from the cheese to the honey to the sausage, is made on site. One fun spot to eat at here is the old red barn, an Amish construction the company shipped over piece by piece. On the outside it looks like a real working barn, but the inside looks like an upscale restaurant.

Over the course of the weekend we participated in lots of fun activities, including a trip to the farm's spa (that's a funny sentence) and a sunrise horse riding tour. You may remember I'm something of a novice horseback rider (read that post here) and the guide recognized this immediately. I was given the horse described as "so docile a child can ride him." Unfortunately, I was busy holding on for dear life, so there are no pics of the ride. But it was good fun.

Lindsey and I also participated in a wine tasting and a scotch tasting. Not at the same time. We discovered we like wine and don't like scotch. All very informative.

It was an incredible weekend and I was so lucky that Lindsey brought me. Had she not, I may have never discovered my inner cowgirl. Here's a link to the Blackberry Farm's site for those who want more info: http://www.blackberryfarm.com/

And here are some gratuitous shots courtesy of Lindsey T:

Psst. If you keep up with the horse racing sheets, which I know you do, you know Erica from America The Horse ran last Sunday. I'm pleased to announce she came in second. This is a big improvement over her prior race, when she actually went backward for a moment. I hope that's not meant to be symbolic. Read more about her meteoric climb to fame here.

What A Wonderful Town

2011-07-22T17:33:00.000-07:00

So, I have been remiss in not doing a NYC post. Not just because it's a great city and I've traveled there quite a bit over the last year, but because my boyfriend has a play off-Broadway right now. I'll take a moment and apologize to him once again for ignoring this point thus far on my blog.

Cory and our friend Elan (who you've read about here and here) wrote Channeling Kevin Spacey a few years ago, and after some tours in Canada and Florida, the boys have brought it to the Big City. The play has been open since April 15, and we've done a lot of back and forth between NY and DC since then. Luckily, the show has been doing very well! There have been some developments recently to add shows, which I'll write more about soon. In fact, I plan to dedicate a whole post to more info about the play in a few days. For now, here's a link for anyone interested in checking the play out at the St. Luke's Theatre: http://www.ckstheshow.com/

For now, this post is all about a recent NYC trip we took over July 4th weekend. Like most of our recent NYC travel, the trip was heavy on the CKS (that's Channeling Kevin Spacey for those of us playing the at home version). But some other factors made this weekend extra special. One, it was the anniversary of our country's independence from imperialist England. Just kidding. We all know who's side I'd be on in that fight...look here if you're not sure.

No, we were super excited for this trip because my Dad would be joining us for the weekend, all the way from Florida. Also, our good friends Ben and Kacey were moving to Philadelphia just a day after we arrived. Not that we were happy they were leaving, just that we would get to see them before their Exodus.

Here's a pic of our room at 70 Park Avenue. Yes, that is the hotel's name as well as its address. This is how the rooms look before your suitcase explodes on it.

And this is a picture of the dinner we had with B&K in the Village. Ben is a chef and I think he was a little over-proud of how much we were able to eat.

We hung out a bit after dinner and got a little photo happy. Here's me and Ben, looking normal (and the first pic of me on this blog since I cut off 10 inches of hair!):

Here's Cory and Ben, looking un-normal:

Here's me and Kacey trying to look as strange as Cory and Ben. Except Kacey looks pretty, and I look like a jerk:
The next day, Dad arrived. I have a fun history of sharing places with my Dad, like here and here. He checked into the same hotel as Cory and I so it was a quick trip down the elevator to find each other. His first night in we went to Kuma Inn in Alphabet City. This place is amazing, it's a tiny Asian fusion restaurant built in somebody's old apartment. There's, like, six tables in the whole place. Here's a blurry photo of us enjoying the spot:

After Kuma we saw Anything Goes. I think I liked it a whole lot more than the boys. Whatever. It starred Sutton Foster and, more importantly, Joel Grey. All you Cabaret fans holla' out there!

The next day Cory attacked the TKTS booth. I mean he nicely encouraged TKTS patrons to kindly buy tickets to his play. In the meantime, Dad and I visited the Bouchon Bakery in Rockefeller Center for some homemade Nutter Butters and HoHos. Also, we saw Avenue Q. I was lucky enough to see this in London and I knew Dad would enjoy it. Fortunately, he did. So, in one weekend I got to see a theater legend and other people got to enjoy themselves as well.

That night we went to CKS then Sparks Steakhouse. It's a tasty place famous for being the spot where Mobster Gotti had some famous other-mob dude killed. Plus, they do a mean filet, so we all won. I know, I know. Bad photo...

Afterward we went to Little Branch, a speak easy bar in the Village. The place was first introduced to us by B&K so it seemed appropriate. The bar has no sign outside, you just have to stand near an unassuming brick building and wait for someone to appear from behind a secret door. The place has lots of fun drinks named after Prohibition-era peeps, like The Hemingway and The Fitzgerald. There was also a tasty drink I sampled called the Bobby Burns, out of place for the era they were going for but still appropriate as it was made with Scotch. Come on Rebecca, I know you know this one...

Here's another blurry pic of me and Dad hanging out:
Our last day I made Dad walk a really long way to Papaya Dog where we had, he admitted, the best hot dogs ever. We then moseyed down to the Upright Citizen's Brigade in the Lower West Side, an improv comedy club started by Amy Poehler. We saw John Lutz from 30 Rock and Zach Woods, who plays the really tall and pale guy Michael Scott can't stand on The Office. It was very entertaining, and then we had a nice dinner at ABC Kitchen. I say nice, but I mean fantastic. ABC Kitchen was named the best new restaurant in the city for 2011, and I agree. We'd been trying to get in for a while ever since our friend Ben (yes, that Ben) began as a chef there last year. It seemed appropriate to finally sample the place the weekend we honored Ben and Kacey's leave from the Big Apple. And it was well worth the wait.
The four-day weekend was a great time. I find sharing the places you love with the people you love is always good fun. Now, I leave you with this amazing mash up by the Glee kids. Please take note, Finn is standing on the TKTS iconic red steps in the first shot. Some people, like those named Erica, Cory and Lindsey, like to stand there and peddle CKS tickets...a lot. Also, in the first shot you can see a huge poster behind Finn of Daniel Radcliffe promoting HTSIBWRT, a delightful madcap. You can read about my giddy opinion of this musical here. New York, New York indeed!

Spring Break '11

2011-06-22T15:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I wasn't on spring break. But a post about Fort Lauderdale Beach felt like it warranted a spring break reference. Plus, this trip took place over the last weekend before summer, so I say it's applicable.

Recently, I spent a long weekend in SoFla and it was as refreshing as a day at the beach. Cory and I were in town for his ten year high school reunion, and I decided to fly down early to spend some time with the fam. My Mom and her clan drove down from their home an hour and a half away, since we hadn't seen each other in a while. At different points, we had myself and Cory, my mother, stepfather and sister, my Grammy and step-grandparents, my aunt and three cousins. It was a very crowded but very happy holiday in the sun.

We stayed at the Grand Pelican, a pretty hotel that reminded me of the Grand Floridian at Disney World. Of course, its real highlight was the lazy river, which was much enjoyed by both my 10-year-old sister and Cory.

One of the best things about the hotel was that its right on the beach. Most of the hotels in that area are across the street from the water and you have to walk across to get to the sand. We took full advantage of being on the water: we had our meals on the hotel's patio overlooking the beach and kept our room doors open at night to hear the waves.

And now, for no real reason, I'm posting a pic of my mother at the pool. Her face hasn't graced this blog yet and it's possible she'll make me take it down, but for now here she is:

Doesn't she look young?

Our weekend ended with the reunion, and we got together with a bunch of friends from high school beforehand (Yes, Cory and I went to the same high school, though we didn't graduate the same year. Go Paladins!). Here's some pre-party shots of the class of '01. See how I brought it full circle? And no, the blue thing wasn't planned.

Psst, my friend Elan (who's in the pic above and has been mentioned in posts like this) and his wife Melissa became parents today! Mazel tov you guys!!!

Tony Time

2011-06-09T18:39:00.000-07:00

Note: The soundtrack for this post is the song On Broadway. If you prefer The Drifters' version, click here. If you're partial to George Benson's version, click here. Are we all hearing it now? Excellent. Please proceed.

Did everyone watch the Tony's this weekend? Or were we all too busy watching the very sad Miami/Dallas game? I dabbled in both, as I'm loyal to the theater world and South Florida. I always love the Tony's, but I was extra excited for them this year. I've spent a bit of time in NYC this past year (more on that later) and I was fortunate enough to see a number of the shows nominated for the Big Award. As such, I've compiled a list here of some of the Broadway happenings I'm loving right now:

1.) First and foremost, this behemoth of a show...How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. There's much to recommend it. Peabody Award, Best Revival, Matthew Broderick, blah blah blah blah. Bottom line, Daniel Radcliffe is in it. Now, this is a travel blog, so there hasn't been much Harry Potter reporting (except for here and here and here and here). So some readers may not know about my mild obsession with all things HP. But it's exactly that, an obsession. I'm a nerd. Lauren and I were lucky enough to see D Rad in Equus for his 2007 London performance. That was fantastic, but this took the cake. Radcliffe's dancing made me giddy, and co-star John Larroquette was a hilarious surprise. And, of course, the former Night Court actor won best supporting actor in a musical Sunday night.

In closing, let me reiterate my joy for this show with the following video, taken immediately after seeing the musical:

2). The Book of Mormon, which I briefly touched upon here. This is probably the best theater experience I've had in a good long while. (Hard to believe after seeing the video above, right?) The music is fantastic and it manages to be hilarious and touching at the same time. I'd go on and on about it, but I really don't have to. The thing won nine Tony's Sunday night and has been such a critical success this year it prompted Chris Rock to say, upon presenting the award for best musical of the year: "I don't really need to read the nominees, right? We already know the best musical, right?"

I hear the show will start a national tour in December 2012 and seriously, if it comes near you, see it.

3). The Mother*#@%er With the Hat, known on censored television Sunday Night as The Mother With the Hat. A much less-cool name. This play has a lot of start power, with Chris Rock, Annabella Sciorra of Law & Order fame, and Bobby Cannavale, who Will and Grace friends will remember as the guy Will ends up with in the last season. We decided to see this play randomly a few months ago, when we were in the city with Elan. Elan had never seen a Broadway play before and has a tendency to be picky about the theater he does see, so we wanted to go to something we thought he'd like. The foul language seemed like a good choice to us. And it was. Cannavale was nominated for best actor in a play and I thought he would win, but alas I was wrong. He did take home the Drama Desk award, though, so good on him.

Honorable mentions go out to Sister Act and Priscilla Queen of the Desert. Both were nominated for several awards each and both are really fun, but Priscilla is fantastic. It won best costume, which it deserves. That show has some insane drag queen outfits going on. Here's a peek:

In closing, I'd like to leave you with this video of Tony host Neil Patrick Harris. How much do we all love NPH? He's adorable and he did an awesome closing rap at the end of the show. But his opening number was the scene stealer. As Neil teaches us here, the theater is not just for gays anymore. Please enjoy!

A Horselength

2011-06-09T15:59:00.000-07:00

Wanted to post a quick update on Erica from America, my horse counterpart (you can read all about her here). She ran today and came in fourth! Now, this is certainly not a win, but definitely an improvement over her last performance when she came in next to last. (Read that post here.) Almost placing is a lot more exciting than almost losing. Plus, she "only missed second by a horselength." Whatever that means. I hear it's a good thing.

You can read more about today's race here (she's listed under Race 5), or check out her fan page here. Yes, Erica from America the Horse has an online fan page. From the looks of it, she doesn't have any actual fans yet, but the potential is there.

Also, you may notice I'm using the pronoun she. We do have confirmation now that the horse is a lady, not a tramp. So maybe there will be no more gender confusion from here on out. Maybe.

PS: Anyone notice the blog makeover? The old lady was looking tired, so some things got freshened up around here. Hope you like it!

Sal Tlay Ka Siti (sound it out)

2011-06-07T09:39:00.000-07:00

Can anyone guess what I'm holding in the photo above? For those who can't make it out from the blurry pic, it's Salt Lake City's own Polygamy Porter. I really enjoy inappropriate merchandise, and this fit the bill. During our Sundance trip this year (posted about here) we made a quick stop to Salt Lake City's local Wal-Mart before heading off to Park City. It's been years since I've lived near a Wal-Mart and I always try to finagle a trip to the budget superstore whenever I'm in the vicinity of one. That's when I found this gem of a six pack. Unfortunately, we didn't purchase it, so I can't tell you how Polygamy Porter tastes. But I bet it's full of Mormon-y goodness.

The Wal-Mart trip was made possible as we rented a van this time around, something I was nervous about since we'd be driving on snowy mountains. However, Elan hails from Canada and he assured us he could handle the wheel. This was more or less true (we did come out of it alive) but there were some hairy moments. Sorry Elan! What I meant was, Elan never once made me think I was going to careen off an icy cliff to my death.

Elan had an ulterior motive to the van renting, I believe, as he has a slightly unhealthy obsession with Yelp. As such, he arrived in the great City of Salt Lake with a wish list of restaurants to visit. This is a common occurrence when traveling with Elan, and sometimes it works out nicely. Case in point: Red Iguana. Red Iguana was featured on the Food Network show "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives." The "dives" part of the title certainly fit the Iguana. Here's what it looks like from the outside:

However, the food was delicious! (Read more about it here.) The place specializes in mole, and we tried a bunch of them. Pumpkin mole, chocolate mole, kitchen sink mole...you get the idea. So, thank you Elan, for being an intense Yelp stalker.

Since this has been an Elan-centric post, here's a video to cap it off. When we went snow tubing in 2010, we took a video of Elan screaming like a maniac all the way down the hill. Unfortunately, the video didn't come out. This year, I attempted to take the video again and, true to form, accidentally hit the off button once the actual tubing started. However, check out Elan's face here as he readies himself to fight that hill once again. He looks uber serious...

Also, has anyone seen the new musical "The Book of Mormon" on Broadway? It's written by Matt Parker and Trey Stone of "Southpark" fame, and it's really good. It's about two missionaries from Utah who go to Africa to share the word of God. It's a very funny musical, and also surprisingly heartfelt. Below is a video of one of my favorite songs, "Sal Tlay Ka Siti." Get it, Salt Lake City? It's sung by Nikki James, who's been nominated for a Tony for her performance, and is about what a magical place she believes Salt Lake City to be. It's very sweet...enjoy!

Shall We Sundance?

2011-06-04T15:30:00.000-07:00

Sundance takes place every year in Utah. If you already knew this, you're smarter than me. Before I'd ever been to the annual movie fest, I assumed it took place in some magical, North Pole town. Sundance, Antarctica, maybe. That's a slight exaggeration, but I really did have no idea where the thing was stationed.

Imagine my surprise two years ago when I learned I'd be going to Park City, Utah. Cory is a big film buff and attending the festival is a yearly tradition for him, sort of like Mecca, and I got swept into the yearly pilgrimage. I've been twice now, and I'm pleased to say I love it.

This past festival, we stayed a week with our friends Elan and Melissa, and Cory's sister Lindsey and her friend Stephanie. The photos for this post were fun to go through, as Melissa was about four months pregnant on the trip and not showing at all. Now, she'll be a mama any day, and her outline looks a lot different! (She still looks beautiful though!)

We saw many a movie and several celebrities, but my favorite part about the trip was the beautiful scenery. I had no idea Utah would be so pretty, but it was. We stayed in the picturesque Westgate ski resort, and the whole place looked like a snow globe:

I skied for the first time in Park City, and I was equal parts bad at it and amazed by it. Skiing was a lot of fun for me, surprising as I've never been much of an athlete. Or a fan of cold. One of my favorite things about skiing was riding the gondola up to the top of the mountain. It's so quiet and the only thing around you is tall, white mountains. I loved it. Cory said this was not the typical highlight of a ski trip, but I was unconvinced.

We also went snow tubing, a more laid back snow sport. That is, of course, until the boys decided to turn it into a snowball battle. Not a fight, a battle. There were many casualties, including Cory's pants.

After all that movie-watching and snow diving, we did plenty of nighttime eating and drinking...and TV watching in pajamas. Please don't mind the random pics of us with girls dressed in Stella Artois snowsuits. The pub was giving out free drinks if you took a photo with their girls, and we were happy to oblige.

You can't tell, but in the pajama pic I'm wearing a Banksy T-shirt. Cory is obsessed with the famous street artist, and Banksy's documentary debuted at Sundance in 2010. This made Cory very happy. As you may know, Banksy is a recluse artist and no one knows his true identity. When we were there, Banksy had tagged a few walls around Park City with his art, like a great big "Bansky wuz here" sign. This past Sundance, Elan made a joke of it by giving Cory a Banksy T-shirt. The joke was on Elan, as it's now one of my favorite pj tops.

Here's a photo of Melissa with one of the Bansky walls in Park City. We were happy to see the art was still there a year later.

To cap off, let me reiterate, Utah is cold. Case in point, here's a photo of Cory and I walking down Park City's Main Street. This wasn't one of the snowiest days, but I think it proves my point.

And now, some gratuitous photos of my friends with various celebrities at Sundance. Ten points if you can guess which "The Office" actor Melissa is with below, and who that actress is that Cory is stalking in the last...

Bahama Mama

2011-06-01T11:24:00.001-07:00

If you can't guess from the title, the above photo, or my last post (read here), I was on a cruise in the Bahamas this past weekend. I really like cruising, maybe it's the 70 year old in me. Or perhaps just the Floridian. Either way, I had a ton-o-fun. Cory and I were joining four Florida friends for the weekend and good times were had by all.

We boarded on Friday and Cory and I checked out our room (after downing a frozen rum drink first, of course). It was a cozy fit, but clean and comfortable. Cory's only experience cruising has been on Celebrity and they're known for larger cabins, so he was a bit surprised by the smaller cabins of Royal Caribbean. Still, everything fit and we had all the space we really needed.

On Saturday we hung around the pool for a while before disembarking for Nassau. With no real plans, we ended up pulled by throngs of people and music to Senor Frogs. Things got silly there.

Cory and our friend Dan decided it would be a good idea to jump over the bar's railing and into the water below. I think it was the buckets of beer.

The rest of us left the bar and walked to the Hilton next door, where we found the boys swimming to shore on the hotel's beach. It was a nice spot, so we all stayed and swam for a while.

Back on the boat, there was plenty of eating and drinking, followed by more eating and drinking. I didn't get any photos, but we did return to the cabin that evening to find this flying ninja monkey hanging from the ceiling:

The next day was private island day, and we boarded a very slow moving ferry to get to Coco Cay. We spent a few hours on the beach, me reading in a chair, Wittney and Dan playing in a volleyball tournament, and Cory almost drowning trying to swim out to a barge in the middle of the ocean. Usual beach stuff. We still have no idea how Cory scraped his head during his swim.

When we got back on the boat we went up to the boat's 360 degree bar, called the Viking Lounge, to watch the sunset. It was a bit cloudy so it wasn't the most magnificent view, but we did have some fun drinks. Though, I must say my dirty martini was a lot more masculine than Cory's mudslide or Phil's strawberry daiquiri.

We got our last photo during dinner. After that, there was a lot more toasting of drinks and a lot less taking of photos. We did spend some hours in the casino, even though I kept insisting Cory stop playing. He ended up doing pretty well at roulette, but we won't tell him I said that.

All in all, it was a fun cruise, though I'm not sure Royal Caribbean is my favorite cruiseline. But for a quick Memorial Day trip, the spring break-like vibe was just what we were looking for. How about you all, what sort of cruise style do you prefer?

Bon Voyage

2011-05-25T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'm really excited about my weekend travel plans. Tomorrow Cory and I embark on a Bahamian cruise, and I've been looking forward to it for a while. As some of you may know, the past few months have been consumed with back and forth travel between DC and NY (which I'll be blogging about soon). We literally haven't taken a moment to breathe since March. It's been like working a seven-day-a-week job, and we're both really excited for the break. Plus, it's the first time in a while that we're not traveling for a wedding or similar event (which we're obviously happy to do, it's just nice to switch it up).

We're going with four others, so we'll be a nice-sized group of six. We'll be flying to Orlando then sailing on Royal Caribbean's Monarch of the Seas, for a three-night cruise stopping in Nassau and Coco Cay. Coco Cay is the cruiseline's private island and Nassau is the capital city of the Bahamas. Growing up in South Florida, I'm no stranger to cruises, and so I've been to Nassau a number of times. As such, I'm looking forward to just lying on the beach, not feeling the need to explore the island further. For anyone who's never been though, I'd recommend the Balcony House, dating back to the 1700s, and Government House, the government building where visitors can watch a British changing of the guard. It's like London lite.

We have an outside cabin, which is a big departure for me. I like to travel as much as possible, and this means monitoring your spending on each trip to make sure there's finances left for the next. In this case, the outside cabin actually ended up cheaper than an inside. We booked through Travelocity, but had to do so over the phone because of some tech glitch. When Cory told the woman on the phone our billing address, she told us DC residents get a break on the price. The total cost ended up being $100 less per person, and that's for an upgraded room. So anyone in the DC, Maryland or Virginia areas should look into that.

Now, I just have to finish our packing. There are a few cruise essentials I've learned over the years to always pack: Dramamine, mini shampoos and a small wristlet. Obviously, there are other important items (sunscreen comes to mind) but these are my tried and true tricks specific to cruising that seem to make life easier. Dramamine for those first nights when it seems the ocean is never going to go to sleep. Mini shampoos, even though I always forgo them and use hotel-supplied shampoo to save suitcase room. But most cruiselines offer very low quality toiletries (from a pump in the wall), and cruising is one of the few times I check a bag and pay the fee so that I can take on all the liquid I like. And a wristlet because as soon as I board, I heave off my oversized purse...for the duration of my trip, all I need is my cabin key hung conveniently from my arm.

I'll be sure to post back as soon as I return, and I'll try to take some pretty pictures of the blue Bahamas water. Until then, I hope everyone has a happy and safe Memorial Day. What are your weekend plans?

Horsefeathers!

2011-05-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you've already heard, but Erica from America (the horse) didn't do so well at the races on Sunday. As I previously posted here, a racing horse named after this very blog made his racing debut this past weekend, and the end result was more anti-climactic than I had anticipated.

Erica from America ended up coming in second to last, and you can read the final stats here.

It seems my horse couldn't be bothered to keep up with the other guys, and was content to keep to a relaxing gallop as he took in his surroundings on the racetrack. As my stepfather told me afterward: "Maybe she was reading a book."

Yes, my stepfather said she. As you'll remember from my last post on the subject, I explained that Erica from America is a male horse with a girl's name. Which sometimes happens in horse racing. However, both my mother and stepfather now believe the horse is a girl. We have yet to come to a decisive conclusion on this. My stepfather's dad, the owner of the horse, will surely be able to sum this up, and I'll write back shortly as soon as we have final word.

My first horse experience took place in London, when I tried to understand the sport of polo and ended up flat on my back in the mud instead. Read more about that here. That was my first time on a horse, and I could have never predicted that two years later I would be so invested in the horse racing industry.

For now, I'll say I'm still content with the efforts of the androgynous Erica from America. That's a weird sentence for me to write. I'm sure he/she did his/her best, and I'm sure we'll see good things from him/her in the future. Until then, here's a video of Hal's Hope, the most successful horse to come out of my step-grandfather's stable so far. In 2000, he won the Florida Derby, and here's his moment of glory:

Giddy Up!

2011-05-20T10:41:00.000-07:00

Can you guess what this is a picture of?

No, it's not just a shot of a blurry pony (he looks in focus in real life, promise). Meet Erica from America...the racing horse, not the person or blog title. Ta da! I'm lucky enough to have family who likes to breed horses then name them after relatives.

My step-grandfather is in the horse racing business and gives his new ponies charming names related to various family members. Case in point, my sister's favorite doll growing up was named Favorite Baby. Creative, no? We all get a real kick out of hearing the macho racing announcers yell out through their microphones "Number six is gaining, he's rounding the corner now...and it's Favorite Baby for the win!"

Erica from America (the horse) is two years old now and ready to make his racing debut, this Sunday at Calder Race Track. Erica from America (the person) is very excited by this. I'm hoping there's a lustrous racing career in store for the handsome guy above. Yes, he's a male horse named Erica. Horse naming is a wonky business, but at least they didn't go with their second choice...Sue.

Lustrous career might not be too much of a stretch, by the way. One of my step-grandfather's horses, Hal's Hope, made quite a name for himself a few years back. Hal's Hope won the Florida Derby in 2000 (read more about that here) and ran in the Kentucky Derby that same year. Sadly, he didn't win the Kentucky roses, but I think this story is a good indicator that there are positive things ahead for Erica from America (both the horse and the person).

Of course he could go the way of the horse named after my sister, Emma's Hope, who always refused to leave her gate after the horn was sounded. She was quickly retired to the pasture and now lives a happy life eating hay and giving birth to ponies. Or, the horse named after my step-grandmother, Anita's Hope, who hung herself in her stable before her first race. I think the pressure got to her.

Whatever his future, it's exciting to finally see my guy's name on an official racing sheet. Check him out at the number three spot:

The race is May 22 at 3:43. Apparently, horses are very time specific creatures. The race can be watched on HRTV...ten points if you guessed that it stands for Horse Racing TV. If Comcast doesn't provide the station for your viewing pleasure, you can catch it online at http://www.tvg.com/. Or, just check back here...I'll be sure to post news on how he does!

I know my family and I will be making more than a few bets on my four legged friend this weekend. Reading Erica from America's stat sheet (found here), it seems his minimum bet is fifty cents. I believe, friends, that is what they call a longshot. Which is fine by me. I'm perfectly happy for my name to be synonymous with that label. It just means when we win, we'll win big. I think there's a life lesson in there somewhere.

To tide us all over until the race, here's a video of my sister feeding Erica from America (the hor...oh, you get the point). She likes to go with her grandpa on the weekends to play with all the horses, but Emma did tell me afterward that she gave my horse "extra cookies."

PS: How exciting is it that my namesake is a dark horse?
PPS: How cute is my sister?
PPPS: If you look closely, you'll notice my sister is wearing an Orlando Magic hat. I love her anyway.

Oh Beautiful, For Spacious Skies

2011-05-19T15:18:00.001-07:00

When I first started this blog in 2009, I was living in London and writing a weekly column at the Jewish News. That column, Erica from America, chronicled my attempt to complete 52 quintessentially British tasks in one year (read more about that here). Now, two years later, my 52 adventures are complete and have all been posted about, and I thought perhaps this meant the blog would become obsolete. But I just couldn’t let my baby die. It would be sad and, really, unnecessary. Because while I’ve been blogging about my List of 52 online, I’ve been having other traveling adventures out here in the real world.

I’ve decided to continue writing about my various travels and invite you to come along. If you’ve been keeping up with this blog (or if your name is Becky, Rebecca or Lauren) you know I like to go places. I have a very long list of spots to see before I die. Since returning to the states I’ve traveled to a nice amount of new places and I’ll write about some of that here to catch readers up. Meanwhile, I’ll also be blogging about where I’m currently visiting, so make sure to check back!

When I tried to come up with what my first blog post would be about for this new direction, I decided to start with where I am right now: Washington, DC. I’ve been living here for the past year and sometimes I take for granted that it’s also an amazing spot to visit. Probably my favorite thing about DC is it takes the best parts of New York and London and combines them to make a city that is very metropolitan but still charming, with clean streets and lots of greenery. Plus, there’s plenty of really old stuff, which I like.

I live off of Dupont Circle, which is a pretty well known area in the District. (“American President” fans out there, it’s the circle that Sydney Ellen Wade always said she couldn’t drive on…which I now understand perfectly.)

Here's a prettier shot of the interior of the Circle:

When it's warm out, people swarm this area. And if you're really lucky, those people will be the cast of "Mama Mia."

I spend a lot of time in Dupont Circle (duh, I live there). There are great restaurants, cafes and shops in this area, and all I have to do is walk behind my house to get there. If I'm not hanging out in Dupont Circle, though, I'm in Georgetown. I LOVE Georgetown. It's like a little English village. There's a cottage there called The Old Stone House, which is the oldest home in DC. If you visit the House gift shop, you can try on neat hats.

There's also an area in Georgetown where you can hang out on the Potomac and have a drink near the water. My favorite time to visit is sunset, you get a great view! My relatives Amy and Denise visited and I took them to the spot...it was a hit!

I also played host to my Dad, who visited last month to take advantage of cherry blossom season.

Notice how he's all bundled up? His Florida skin didn't appreciate the DC version of spring. I admit, it can sometimes get cold here. But it is a treat to wake up one morning and be surprised by this:

It may be cold, but snow is pretty. Plus, it's a good excuse to make snow caterpillars, a joy I first discovered in London (as posted here).

Whatever the temperature, though, it's pretty neat to be strolling your neighborhood and pass this:

What about you? I'd love to hear what you all think about the place you call home...

Goodbye Is the Hardest Word

2011-04-27T20:23:00.000-07:00

No. 52: Invade the colony

The day before my departure I spent the morning packing then headed off to the office for final goodbyes. Justin went easy on me and only gave me a few pages to read.

“Should we go down to the pub now?” Lauren K asked just before five pm. We all gathered our things and headed toward the door, when Andrew handed me the plastic skull I’d used during my dramatic debut at the Globe.

“Surely you’re not leaving Bonesy behind?” he asked.

“I can’t take him! His home is here.”

Andrew seemed to agree and set Bonesy back in his spot at the center of the editorial table. I walked over to my skeletal mate and placed the cowboy hat I had worn on Halloween atop his head, forgetting now how the hat had made its way into the office in the first place.

“Farewell good friend, you served me well.”

At the pub, I was toasted with rounds by Lauren and Andrew; Johnny Aziz; Sarah with the Mossad husband; Tess who gave me chocolates for my birthday once; and Justin and Zeddy.

Then one by one my friends left, and there were more people to say goodbye to than just the Scarecrow. Andrew promised to send me some sports stories to read when I get to New York, and Lauren was going to e-mail me the names of any single Jewish guys she knew in the states. Soon though, it was just Zeddy, Justin and I standing outside the pub, holding our jackets closed against the chilly summer evening.

“I have something for you,” Justin said.

“Is it Prince William’s phone number?”

“No, I’m saving that for Hanukkah...”

Yes, I Know My Way Around Here

2011-04-27T19:25:00.000-07:00

No. 51: Be a London tour guide

When I found out my Dad would be visiting me for a week during my final month in London, I created a mental storyline of how it would go. I would take him for tea and crumpets in the Orangery across from Kensington Palace. We would visit the British Library to see Paul McCartney’s handwritten notes when he was penning Yesterday. I would show him Leyton. I didn’t plan, however, on taking the wrong direction on the Piccadilly line only his second day there.

“Erica, are you sure we shouldn’t be going the other way?”

I looked up from the hoard of rush hour commuters crowding the platform to see a giant Tube map on the tiled wall of the subway tunnel. I glanced at the list of stops the line would be calling at to discover that yes, we should be going the other way.

We turned against the crowd and rushed up and over to the other side of the dim platform. A great gush of wind from the train pulling in swept wads of balled up newspaper past our feet. We jumped onto the train just as the red doors shut gently behind us.

“Well that was exciting,” Dad said, catching his breath.

“I usually know where I’m going. I guess I got turned around.”

“I love these seats,” he said, plopping down on one of the blue upholstered chairs along the side of the train. He sat between a small bird-like woman clutching her purse in her lap and a younger guy with legs that stretched out almost to the other side of the car. The guy was listening to headphones, and I could faintly hear the sounds of Nora Jones.

“Where are we going again?” Dad asked. He inspected the sign above his head and I watched his eyes move over station names like Hounslow and Cockfosters. As the train pulled into its next stop we clung to the red subway poles, leaning heavily to one side while the wheels jerked us to a stop.

“China Town. I found the best Chinese restaurant there. And we’re going to have crispy duck on pancakes.”

“Duck and pancakes?”

“It’s not really pancakes, that’s just what they call it. You’ll like it.”

I was making it my mission to show my father that, whatever Glenn Beck may have to say about it, England had wonderful food. I was also taking this visit as an opportunity to prove to him the country had lovely climates, friendly people and entertaining television. I was a goodwill ambassador with less political know how.

“This is our stop.”

We hopped off the train and climbed up the stairs to emerge in the bustling sunlight of Leicester Square. At least I knew I could find my way around here. We walked down a side street decorated with red paper lanterns and Chinese writing, and entered a wider walkway hidden behind the facades of Shaftsbury Avenue. A row of Chinese restaurants greeted us, each with cheerful spinning ducks in the windows.

I found our restaurant and almost immediately spied Zeddy, his tall figure sticking out over the small group of Asian wait staff trying to seat him.

“You found it!” he greeted as I ushered my Dad in behind me.

“I see you know my daughter..."

...And now, a bunch of gratuitous photos of me and Dad doing neat things in London...

English Tudor

2011-03-16T16:59:00.000-07:00

No. 50: Become a Tudor

"Oh don't look so dismal," Zeddy said as he leaned on his car horn. The trip back from Hampton was taking longer than expected, and Zeddy urged the congestion of cars in front of him to move. "We call this traffic. Do you have it in America?"

We were on our way to meet Justin for pizza in Golders Green following a visit to Hampton Court. It's a major point of interest for Henry VIII fans like myself and a place I had been meaning to get to the entire time I was in London. Officially my final Sunday before going back to the states, I'd spent the last few weeks tying up as many loose ends as possible. Which meant lots and lots of last minute sight seeing.

"I haven't even been to Leeds!" I moaned as we walked in Pizza Express.

“That’s awful. You should just stay.”

“I’m being serious!”

“Well you don’t sound it,” Zeddy said. “Who wants to go to Leeds?”

I did. I wanted to go to Leeds, and to Ireland to kiss the Blarney Stone. I wanted to go to Brighton, if for no other reason than to discover why Jane Austen’s Lydia wanted to get there so badly in the first place. There was a great long list of things I had been meaning to do, and now the time had outrun me.It felt as if I’d forgotten to do something, like turn off the coffee pot or have kids before thirty-five.

Locating Justin at a table in the back of the restaurant, we said our hellos and sat down to order. Waiting for my mushroom pie to come, I showed Justin the fluffy quill pen I had picked up from Hampton Court.

“And what will you do with it?”

“Write on parchment.”

“Of course, how silly of me."

Straight on Till Morning

2011-03-01T18:44:00.000-08:00

No. 49: Find Neverland

I prefer rain to sun, which I know is peculiar for someone raised in the sunshine state. There’s something maudlin about rain that makes me feel anything could happen, like Fitzwilliam Darcy walking across my threshold. Which is why, standing in the middle of a British thunderstorm while running through Kensington Garden, I was looking less put out than Cory.

“Don’t you have an umbrella?” he yelled over the din of the rain, grasping my arm and pulling me behind him as we raced to a cluster of trees at the gate of the park. We were looking for an oversized tent where Peter Pan was being performed as part of the area’s annual theater in the park program.

“No! Real Brits don’t use umbrellas!”

“What do they do then?”

“Suffer!” We stopped under the relative shelter of a few tree branches as the gray clouds took out their anger on the city below it. Puddles the size of ponds were everywhere and my clothes were soaked through.

“What now?” Cory asked. I looked side to side, tossing wet locks of hair against my cheeks, searching for something that resembled a classical stage production. A young man a few yards from us had lost hold of his umbrella and was tripping after it in the rain.

“I don’t know, I don’t see anything!”

This wasn’t exactly the picture of perfect tour-guiding I had envisioned for myself. Cory and I had spent the day eating Indian food and walking with no direction around Trafalgar Square. We had not, however, seen even one five-hundred-year-old portrait of an ancient English barrister. And now we were standing in the center of Kensington Garden, unable to find a tent that was supposed to be in the center of Kensington Garden.

“I’m falling down on my job,” I said. Cory took off his jacket and held it over our heads in a futile attempt to keep us dry.

“We have an hour until the show. Why don’t we go somewhere for dinner and maybe the restaurant will know where we’re trying to go?”

“But where?” I asked helplessly.

“Over there.” Cory nodded to a Greek restaurant sitting among a row of Victorian townhouses just outside the gate of the park. It was as anachronistic as the fishing line I knew would help Peter and Wendy fly later that night.

Rushing toward the place we pushed through the doors in haste, startling the waitress who stood at the front of the mostly empty restaurant.

“Nothing was going to keep us from making it here,” Cory told the lady while I doubled over in laughter, dripping water onto the room’s carpet. The waitress looked more confused than amused, but obligingly led us to a table near the window. We had a charming view of the rain hitting the glass, with the greenery from the park looming behind the splatters.

“Is it always like this?” Cory asked as I begin dabbing at my wet arms with a napkin.

“No,” I said. “Sometimes it snows.”

Will, You Marry Me?

2011-02-10T14:58:00.000-08:00

No. 48: Propose to Prince William

It was about a week since Becky left, and I’d already spent several moments during that time writing her messages on Facebook like “I miss your face.” Pushing the biscuit wrapper off my bed with one socked toe, I decided I needed to find a new way to occupy my time.

I was diving into work, and trying to come up with some flowery prose that would convince the future king of England to marry me.

It couldn’t be that difficult, I had a university degree in writing after all. I sat and stared blankly at my empty Word document, then quickly called in backup. I texted Rebecca and Lauren: if you were proposing to prince william what would you say?

After ten minutes of patient waiting, Rebecca responded: i tried to think of a pithy joke to write back, i’ve got nothing. why are you texting me from down the hall?

It appeared I was on my own in the cell of solitude. After a bit more hemming and hawing, I decided to write from my heart and closed my Word document, planning instead to put pen to paper (a handwritten note is more personal anyway):

Dear Prince William,

How have you been? I know I don’t know you, but I figure I should begin our acquaintance by being polite.

I am writing to offer you my hand in marriage. It may seem sudden, but I have been enamored with you for the last decade, so for me it seems well over due. I would be a lovely wife and I think I would make a charming addition to the royal family.

If you ever feel like meeting up for coffee and a chat about our possible future, feel free to look me up.

Yours,

Erica

I’m still waiting for my reply.

Picnic in the Park with George, er, Friends

2011-01-13T18:05:00.000-08:00

No. 47: Become a picnic-er

“Do you realize this is probably the last time I’ll be sitting in a park in London?”

“Becky, don’t say such depressing things!” Lauren said from her spot on the grass. She carefully drew a portrait of Big Ben on her corner of Rebecca’s canvas, using a yellow crayon to add contour.

Sitting in the Leyton public park on the warmest day of the year so far (I think the temperature was somewhere around twenty-two degrees Celsius, which certainly didn’t sound like a sunny day, but I went with it) we spread a scanty collection of art supplies around us. Rebecca and I decided to put to use a pair of blank canvases Mr. Mappin gave us back at the castle, telling us to “Make something beautiful.”

We also brought an impromptu picnic with us, as I was skeptical about our ability to create a timeless masterpiece but confident in our ability to eat our way through the better part of an afternoon.

“Well it’s true,” Becky said. “And I’m not the only one.”

What a dour topic of conversation for that sunny day. But it was a fact; the four of us had each finally picked a departure date from the UK. Becky was going home at the end of the month and then Rebecca and Lauren would be leaving in May.

“I can’t believe you all are leaving me to live in a big empty flat in Leyton,” I said with a dramatic sigh. I plopped my thin paint brush into a plastic cup of water, making little splatters on the garden scene I was painting on my canvas.

“You could always leave when we do,” Rebecca said, though I knew I couldn't. Last September I announced to my friends and family, not to mention all of British Jewry and the five readers of my blog, that I would stay there one year. And stay there one year I would.

“No one would think anything of it if you left early Erica,” Rebecca continued as she drew a picture of the four of us huddled around a bath tub.

“I know you’re going to be sad to see us go, but I also think you’ll be fine,” Lauren said, picking at a bit of pita and hummus in a Ziploc bag. “You can do this on your own. And did you just say our flat was big?”

I suppressed a smile as I sipped from a plastic cup of Spumanti. She may have had a point, but I had a suspicion our home was going to seem massive come June. Massive, yet small, quiet and plain.

Secret Agent Man

2011-01-09T19:34:00.000-08:00

No. 46: Become a Bond girl

If anyone ever asks you, the secret service agency James Bond works for is pronounced M-eye-six, not M-sixteen. Say the latter and local Britons are likely to point you in the direction of the nearest major highway.

Also, Bond considers tea to be partially responsible for the downfall of the empire, and I found myself warming to the idiosyncratic Brit during research for my column.

My only previous knowledge of the secret agent was snippets I’d caught of the movies being shown on TV, enough for me to know I really liked the glamorous costumes his leading ladies got to wear. I actually saw my first Bond film in theatres a few months into my trip, when Justin and Zeddy took me to a press screening of "Quantum of Solace" in North London. That film was successful in making me think becoming a double agent would be super fun, and I began plotting my career as a martini-chugging assassin.

And assassin is not an exaggeration, as I quickly learned the double-oh part of the code name literally indicates that Bond has a government-approved license to kill. I also discovered that Bond’s mentor M has a name rooted in real British history that dates back to 1909, when the first chief of SIS, Captain Sir Mansfield Smith Cumming, began signing his correspondences as ‘C.’ Every subsequent chief kept up the custom. I wonder if there’s ever been an E?

Unfortunately, further research informed me I would not be receiving the opportunity to actually become a sniper-come-lately, as to become an MI6 recruit both I and my parents must be British citizens. Blast! While I might be up for a quickie marriage in the name of accurate reporting, I’d have a fine time convincing my parents to take the same measures for the sake of my scoring a funny column. The dream died quicker than George Lazenby’s career.

I don’t actually know what that joke means, I stole it from Zeddy.

If you’re impressed with the amount of knowledge I gained about MI6, you should be. My information came with just a few clicks of my mouse during a perusal of the government body’s website, which is shockingly explanatory given its styling as a secret agency.

All this is to say that I found a museum in Hampshire that houses dozens of prop vehicles from the Bond movies. Actually, it’s less a museum and more a giant curio cabinet set up by a rich dude, Lord Montagu to be exact. I know, that’s his real name.

Lord Montagu, when he’s not busy battling those pesky Capulets, likes to collect vintage automobiles. He set up the National Motor Museum on the grounds of his ancestral home, Beaulieu Palace House. One section of the museum is devoted to motorbikes and submarines used by the various incarnations of James Bond and I decided to make it the subject for one of my last Erica from America columns.

I Don't Think We're In London Anymore

2010-12-20T19:45:00.000-08:00

No. 45: Fall down the rabbit hole

“This is something I know you’ll like,” Zeddy tells me as we walk up a short flight of marble stairs just off one of the university’s square gardens. We reach a second level where two imposing wooden doors stand, a stream of people entering and exiting whatever lies behind that doorway.

“Zeddy,” I whisper in reverence as we walk into a long room with a high ceiling and row after row of stained glass windows. “It’s the Great Hall.”

And it is. I am standing in the Great Hall from the wizarding world of Harry Potter. Looking at the lengthy tables set with platters I can almost see Neville Longbottom.

“They recreated this room when they were building the set for the film,” Zeddy replies knowingly as he motions toward a display board in the corner that details how the hall was rebuilt on a soundstage.

I spend about 15 minutes having Zeddy take my picture acting out various scenes from the film and then we exit, set to experience one of Oxford’s most famous and nostalgic pastimes: punting. Punting is a favorite activity of students. Locals spend warm days loaded into narrow dinghies that look more like canoes, laden with picnic baskets and booze while projecting themselves through the water by standing up and see-sawing with a long, skinny pole. It’s great fun and a fantastic opportunity to watch your friends fall into the water.

It doesn’t take long to find a punting vendor alongside the Thames, and pretty soon I’m sitting in my seat low to the water. I’m holding a pink and green floral umbrella that looks passably like something a Jane Austen heroine might carry, and it all feels very “Brideshead Revisited.” I’m pleased when a young man floating by in a lavender polo shirt shouts out that he wishes he had thought to bring one as well.

Zeddy is towering above me trying to figure out how to move.

“I don’t understand why we’re going backwards,” he states as he juts the pole into the riverbed below.

I make some jests at his expense for a few minutes, until Zeddy gets his bearings back and is successfully and peacefully rowing us down the idyllic countryside. I also have no room to mock, as 20 minutes into our float I take my own turn at the stern and have to resort to sitting down and using the pole to paddle as if it were a pair of oars. I look like some sort of modern day Sacagawea without the poise. I hand the pole back to my captain and return to my umbrella.

We get into a nice rhythm though, bobbing down past the beautiful old buildings and chapels that make up the school, passing bright yellow and blue buds that promise me spring has very nearly found us.

“This is just like Alice in Wonderland,” Zeddy says from his standing position. My eyes are closed and I quietly mummer a “Hmm” of agreement, though I have no idea what he means. Zeddy goes on to explain that Lewis Carroll was an Oxford maths lecturer (the Brits say maths, not math) and wrote the famous children’s tale during his time here. Legend has it that Carroll wrote the story in 1856 for a little girl named Alice who was the daughter of the school’s dean at the time, Henry Liddell. He spent many hours entertaining the young girl by rowing her down the river in a punting boat and telling her fantastical stories about rabbits, caterpillars and maniacal red queens. She begged him to write the story down, and the fiction classic was born.

“That’s lovely,” I hum, watching the leaves of overhanging tree branches slowly pass over me like a botanical rooftop.

“Yes. Unfortunately for old Lewis it brought up some dreadful pedophilia rumors.”

“Zeddy!” I shout, sitting up from my blissful posture. “That’s awful!”

“I know,” he replies seriously, still rowing. “It’s a curious world, indeed.”

Renaissance Fare

2010-08-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

No. 44: Become a Renaissance Man

...Becky and I are in Italy now and are spending our second evening in Venice picking up phrases like ciao bella and bring me spaghetti.

When we landed at the Venice airport yesterday morning we were more than a little dazed from our all night bender in Barcelona, though meeting that restaurant-manager turned out to be a stroke of luck. Simmo, as his name believe it or not turned out to be, introduced us to his friends, showed us a good time and then very nicely drove us to the airport. So no date rape there. Now in Italy, however, we were going to get screwed.

Standing in the airport we were confused to realize we weren’t actually in Venice. I mean, the name of the airport has Venice in it. But a bit of investigating, in which I gesticulated wildly at an Italian security guard and he smirked at my American-ness, revealed to us we must take some sort of boat transport to reach the floating city. Which was a big duh for us, because, duh, it’s a floating city.

Unfortunately, we were unprepared and unresearched, which are the times in life when one is most susceptible to highway robbery. This proved true in that moment. The only person we could talk into ferrying us across the water was a man running a small motorized boat. He wanted €90 for the ten minute trip, and he didn’t even have the decency to look sorry about it. Not knowing what else to do, we agreed.

We were certainly fleeced by that man, but I think both Becky and I forgot our quickly emptying pockets when we began to ride through the tiny canals. Oh, my heart sang. It was one of those things that is so beautiful, it makes you a little sad because surely nothing will ever be that good again. The midday sun was making the frescoed walls look golden and the arched windows, stone columns and green-tiled roofs glittered with the reflection of the silver water. It looked like someone had painted a picture of Italy, then hit it with a splash of magic dust just for our arrival.

Becky and I stood in the boat, grins the likes of idiots on our faces, and periodically resorted to laughter. We couldn’t believe our good fortune.

It’s nighttime now on day two, and we’ve invented a thing we like to call Second Dinner. Becky and I have eaten more fettucini than the Super Mario Brothers, and we’re not at all ashamed about it...

...By the time Becky and I make it back to London, we’ve further put stock in the popular myth that the two of us should not be left alone. It’s something we’d heard before, but we always laughed it off, like when old ladies say not to swim after eating or when Rebecca tells you it’s important to have health insurance. But now the pattern is becoming undeniable.

Our last day it Italy saw us pick pocketed by a Roman Dodger-wannabe, and we exited the boot-shaped country with no camera, no cash and no credit cards. And thanks to new European Union laws, I didn’t even have a stamp in my passport to prove I was there. This thievery was doubly disappointing because, as Becky mournfully pointed out as we stood stranded in an Italian train station, it meant we didn’t get to eat that day.

More pressing a problem, however, was that we had absolutely no way of purchasing the €5 metro tickets to catch our flight back to the more civilized England. The ticket man behind the front counter was very, very unmoved by the story I gave him, and so I did what plenty of middle class American girls had done before me: I panhandled.

I guess my family’s predictions eight months ago about how my time in Europe would ultimately turn out weren’t so off the mark. But I did get those Euros. When I smugly handed them over to the unhelpful ticket man, he didn’t look the least bit curious or concerned as to how I came by them. Bloody Italians.

Once we finally made it into the foyer of our Leyton flat, hungry, disheveled and humbled from our ordeal, Lauren threw her arms around us for a good five minutes. I don’t think she’s going to let me go on another holiday any time soon...

Spanish Lullabies

2010-07-29T17:24:00.000-07:00

Warning: There is no photographic evidence to prove this holiday ever took place. Spain and Italy being what they are, Becky and I returned from our trip with no cameras, cash or credit cards. Imagine a photo of a Spanish fountain here.

No. 43: Roll like Catherine of Aragon

...Leaving the square we return to the hostel to get our bags, saying goodbye to the quiet guy running the front desk who Becky and Sarah have dubbed Hot Jesus.

The sun has finally set and there won’t be much to do until the clock gets closer to midnight, so we look for a restaurant where we can sit until the streets get crowded again. Walking down Las Ramblas, the main promenade where most of Barcelona’s traffic pools through, we see a small café with doors wide open, a youngish looking man in a gray suit motioning for us to come in.

“Buenos noches senoritas. Are you American?”

We sit down as the friendly assumer passes out menus and glasses of water. I’m using my small red suitcase as a footstool as Becky orders bread and tomatoes for the table, and a shot glass appears in front of me.

“This is very special,” the restaurant man tells us, revealing a glass bottle containing a bright yellow liquid that looks like Mountain Dew. He introduces himself as Alonso, the manager of the restaurant, and he pours us each a thimbleful of the drink. It tastes like Windex.

“Where are you beautiful ladies from?” Alfonso asks as he pours more window cleaner into our glasses.

“From Florida,” Sarah tells him as she bobs her head to a song playing on the radio. It’s Hungry Eyes, and I find myself humming along as well.

“Florida is very beautiful,” he replies. “Miami is a wonderful place.”

“You’ve been?” Becky asks.

“No, but I have many friends who have told me.”

Sarah starts to sing along to the music in the background, doing her best Jenifer Grey impression. As she finishes the middle chorus I pick up the lyrics.

I’ve got hungry eyes/I feel the magic between you and I/I’ve got hungry eyes

Sarah takes hold of my hand and we’re in a duet. Someone turns up the radio and we stand to finish the performance, drawing out the last note and gazing lovingly at each other as if Sarah’s father has just told me nobody puts Baby in the corner.

We finish to mild applause and more yellow alcohol.

“You do know I just filmed that, right?” Becky asks me.

“Oh leave me alone,” I say. “Sarah makes everyone bisexual.”

“Where are you girls going later?” asks Alfonso, delighted with our display. “I would love to show you a club my friend owns.”

Becky and I look at one another to silently debate the issue with our eyes, while Sarah replies “Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, that would be good,” I hear myself say, wondering if I’ve had too much Windex cocktail.

We gather our things and head back out to Las Ramblas, which is beginning to wake up. Marquees are lit up on top of bar fronts and a group of girls in short skirts and cheap high heels are waving to convertibles that pass by.

“This is my car,” Alfonso says, pointing to a small blue compact. I’m sure I’ve seen a Lifetime made-for-TV movie cautioning against this, 'Mother May I Leave Without My Daughter,' but I climb in the backseat behind my friends. As we race down the street I try not to think about how my father would react to my current situation, which isn’t difficult given the warm hum in my blood following three straight hours of drinking.

Sarah is chatting with our new guide in surprisingly good Spanish, and we pull in to a small parking lot positioned next to a beach...

Scary Ghost Stories and Tales of the Glories

2010-07-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

No. 42: Have a British Christmas

Christmas in England has a lot to do with ghost stories, something I should have figured out from constant readings of “A Christmas Carol” and “The Turn of the Screw.” I’m understanding it fully now as Zeddy and I board a motorized cart to ride through a Christmas-themed haunted house that’s set up in the middle of Hyde Park. I wasn’t aware that things like Christmas-themed haunted houses existed, but I also wasn’t previously aware that some people in this world eat pig’s blood for breakfast and call it sausage. I’m learning a lot this year.

“Boo!” shouts a gray plastic ghost with a Christmas wreath around his neck, as it jumps out at me and Zeddy while we sit politely in our slow moving car.

“Zeddy, this doesn’t seem like a traditional Christmas,” I say as we pass some rubber spiders hung up on a tree like ornaments.

“Of course it’s traditional,” he replies, snapping my photo as we move along. “We have roasted chestnuts.”

Zeddy hands me one of the chestnuts and I pretend to eat it. Roasted chestnuts are fantastic in a Mel Torme song, but are a little bland in real life. They’re sold at tiny stands throughout the city come December-time and taste a bit like raw peanuts covered in tree bark. I spit some shell out onto the moving ground below us and cover it up as a cough.

We came to Hyde Park today for some ice skating, something my Florida self had never actually done outside. Obviously, I’ve spent plenty of summer camp time at the Sunrise Ice Rink, a man-made and air conditioned shrine to frost, but the idea of strapping on skates and gliding around in fresh air had me thrilled. Taking to the ice this morning I was filled with Christmas cheer, and I decided to share some of my American traditions as we gracefully glided over English ice.

“Zeddy, have you ever heard of a movie called ‘A Christmas Story’?”

“A film Erica, we call them films.”

“Yes,” I replied, holding my arms out at either side to steady myself, as a group of 12 year olds zoomed past me in ear muffs. “Have you heard of it?”

“No, but it sounds like it’s about Christmas.”

“It is,” I said, flapping my arms about. “It’s very famous in America, and on Christmas day there’s this TV network that plays it for 24 hours straight, over and over.”

“Splendid. What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s about this boy named Ralphie and he really wants a bee bee gun for Christmas. And everyone says he can’t have one because he’ll shoot his eye out. But then he gets one and he goes outside, and he shoots his eye out.”

Zeddy turned his feet and came to a halt on the rink, sending up a spray of icy foam and causing me to run into the side wall as I hadn’t yet picked up my stopping technique.

“That sounds bloody awful!”

“Why?” I shouted back. “It’s wonderful, everyone loves it.”

“He shoots his eye out?” Zeddy asked incredulously. “Sounds like just the thing some barmy American would come up with. How about ‘I Ran Over an Elf’? Or ‘I Slaughtered Santa?'”

“All right, all right,” I said, stomping toward the little exit platform on the side of the rink.

“Or ‘I’ve Killed a Gingerbread,’ or ‘I Raped a Reindeer’?”

For the remainder of the morning I stopped sharing my countrymen’s traditions.

Star Sightings

2010-07-22T08:54:00.000-07:00

No. 39: Attend a film premiere at Leicester Square

If you’re genuinely British, you prove it by talking about how much you hate Leicester Square. It’s big, crowded, noisy, flashy, filled with tourists, and I love it. The area is surrounded by little theatres, outdoor cafes, street painters, shops selling those obnoxiously tall hats with the Union Jack on them, and lots and lots of cinemas.

These movie houses attract worldwide attention, as every film ever has its big London premiere at a Leicester Square theater. Anything Colin Firth, Emma Thompson or Mr. Bean has been in was first screened here.

I learn this one evening as I cut across the square to get to China Town for some crispy duck on pancakes. I’m walking along innocently enough when shrieks the stuff of Beatles mania fill the air. I see an astonishing crowd of people and camera flashes going off, above me a large banner with the word “Twilight” emblazoned on it.

Huh. Must be a run on Pick n Mix at the Odeon. (I’ll take a moment here to praise the English tradition that is Pick n Mix. Americans have hot buttery popcorn at the movies, the Brits have jars and jars of gummy fried eggs, shrimp-shaped Smartees and banana smiles. Look into it.)

I’m reading my morning Metro on the Central line the next morning before I understand. Photos of Robert Pattinson are splattered on the pages, with background shots of dreamy eyed girls fawning over the vampire heartthrob as he walks the red carpet in Leicester Square. I’m amazed at my powers of observation, and shrug it off as a missed opportunity.

But this is not the last time this happens to me. Like a moth to a flame, I seem to continually find myself walking past huge Blockbuster mega stars as they publicize their latest films. I hear women screaming for Will Smith and tweens crying over Zac Efron; see ladies falling out of windows to sneak a peek at Josh Hartnett and watch cars filled with James McAvoy’s entourage speeding away. I find it very bizarre, this element of the superstar walking down the little side road where I like to pick up a box of takeaway curry.

I thoroughly enjoy anything having to do with celebrity, though, and begin to keep track of the A-list brushes I walk by; my piece de resistance came one afternoon when I passed Patrick Stewart walking down Shaftesbury Avenue in sunglasses and a baseball cap. I followed him for five blocks.

Unfortunately, such ready access to fame begins to lose some of its sparkle, a truth I realize one evening when Lauren and I stake out a spot in the bustling square where we heard rumor some filming would be taking place for the next Harry Potter movie. There’s a crowd of people lined up behind a small barricade and we assume we must be in the right spot, until we learn the eager bunch are waiting to catch a glimpse of Russell Crowe, who’s about to step out of his SUV. We sigh in disappointment, shrug our shoulders, and promptly head home.

Honoring Anarchy

2010-05-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Pottery Barn

2009-10-02T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-30T15:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-02T02:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-18T09:21:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-16T02:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-13T15:39:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-08-10T09:03:00.000-07:00

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.

The Prince and the Pauper

2009-08-09T11:53:00.000-07:00

No. 26: Receive a royal invitation

“I’m here to meet the prince.”

The unimpressed guard doesn’t hide a snicker as he takes in my diamond-patterned tights and buckled combat boots, and I wonder if I shouldn’t have worn something else.

“My name is Erica Morris,” I offer, using my best I-belong-to-be-here-voice. The lift of his eyebrow tells me my American accent has done little to convince.

“I’m going to need to see some identification.”

The plastic square is already in my palm and outstretched for him to look at. As he glances at the license I see him squint at the part that says Florida, USA. The gesture causes his bulky bell-shaped hat to ride down low on his forehead, weakening his intimidating glare.

He motions to a man holding a clipboard and the pair flips skeptically through a sheaf of papers.

“Here you are,” bell-hat concedes. “With the London Jewish News?”

I nod, tucking a piece of brown hair behind my ear, and head left as his fingers point me in the right direction.

I knock on a thick black door with a sign that reads ‘Office of the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall.’

The door opens slowly and a stocky man jerks his head to the right. I walk to a room that looks like it’s attempting to put the occupier at ease but fails at the task. Tiny silver soldiers adorn a wooden bookcase filled with heavy tomes and a set of flowery china sits atop a fireplace. I lean in closer to the bookcase and spy a framed photo of Prince Charles in a meadow, a royal stamp above his head.

Looking around I feel outnumbered. Four middle-aged men are standing in the home of the heir to the throne and they’re staring at me like I’m the strangest part of this scenario. I shift my weight and give them a thin smile before sinking into an armchair. I pick up a newspaper and try to melt into the wallpaper.

“You been with him all week?” a mustachioed man carrying an imposing camera asks a fellow next to him. His heavy accent tells me he’s with the Israeli convoy and I grimace thinking about the flimsy Nokia 200 stowed in my bag.

“Just got in,” answers a wiry man with a television camera on his back. The two men are holding their bulky equipment like golf bags and I realize I’m in the middle of a boys’ club that no one is going to ask me to join.

As the gentlemen begin complaining about the trials of international journalism, I pull out my notepad and earnestly start taking notes.

I am in over my head.
I look like an idiot.
Prince Charles has flowered china over his mantle.

“You must be Erica, Zeddy’s girl.”

I look up to see a friendly looking blond woman. About the same age as me, she’s in her mid-twenties, clean and smiling, wearing a smart gray suit. We look like a before and after picture of what not to wear when meeting royalty.

“I knew the Jewish News got someone new in. Are you covering the Kindertransport event next week?”

I manage a nod as she briskly shakes my hand and passes me a sky blue press badge that I hang from a button on my pea coat.

Sarah leads us out of the holding room, chatting animatedly about the prince’s scheduling conflicts, and the team of professionals trails us as we pass corridors and rooms that beg exploration. There are ornate golden tapestries and floor to ceiling portraits of 16th century figures who I can only guess are cousins of the home’s owner.

“Clarence House is impressive,” Sarah states in a conspiring voice.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I didn’t even know Prince Charles had a house. I mean, obviously he has a house, he’s not homeless. But I thought they all lived in Buckingham Palace.”

“It’s a common mistake,” she tells me with a warm grin that gives me the feeling it is not, in fact, a common mistake.

We’ve stopped walking and are standing in a little arboretum with a teeming outdoor garden behind us, surrounded by pinks and greens that are otherwise extinct in the British autumn weather.

“Right, so the prince will walk out here and the president will come in from there. They’ll shake hands, smile for the cameras and then move inside. No one may address the prince or ask any questions. Understood?”

My colleagues begin testing the light against the flash of their bulbs and I scrounge around in my purse for my Nokia. The bag is a mess of maps, beauty products and one old sock, and I pull the camera out and start playing with the buttons. I rotate through flash, no flash, automatic, and back to flash, giving a self-satisfied nod of mission accomplished.

“Here they come.”

I look up as a limo pulls into the garden and Israeli President Shimon Peres steps out. I’m blinded by the white lights of the flashes, but dutifully hold my lens up as Peres walks to stand in front of the French doors in front of us. The 85-year-old president looks preoccupied but patient as he stands still, before the doors open and Charles, Prince of Wales, appears in a blue suit with an apology for his tardiness.

The men shake hands and exchange polite greetings, turning to allow the journalists to take their picture. I’m spending more time staring at Charles than looking through my lens, fascinated that a face I know so well from a lifetime of Access Hollywood is five feet away from me.

As quickly as it starts it’s over and the doors close shut with finality, the two leaders off to discuss climate change, hunger and world peace. I look down at a set of gardening trowels and wonder vaguely if they belong to Camilla.

“Did you get what you needed?” Sarah asks as she escorts me down a hidden foot path away from Clarence House. I nod as I scroll through the three pictures I was able to snap, each one blurrier than the next.

“It was perfect.”

Smoke Alarm

2009-08-07T10:55:00.000-07:00

No. 25: Learn to roll cigarettes

I’m absolutely certain that British men roll cigarettes, though several people have tried to tell me I’m wrong. Zeddy wonders where I got this generalization from, but I know the ratio of Americans to Brits who tuck their tobacco leaves into little paper squares must be sliding heavily in the English favor. I’ve seen enough Jason Statham movies, I know stuff.

I’m with the girls at a blues bar Becky likes which has live music every Monday night, specializing in a grungy, smoky, I’ve-had-too-many-pints-and-that-guy-with-the-neck-piercing-looks-kind-of-cute atmosphere, when I find my proof.

A guy with a neck piercing who looks kind of cute is rolling a cigarette, and I ask him for a tutorial.

Seth (a way too normal sounding name for this guy) carefully folds the paper into a V, lines the tobacco into the crease, presses a health-conscious filter into one end, and rolls the contraption up. He’s tapping the cig on the table to make sure all the tobacco is compressed, and asks me if I need a light.

Oh. He thinks I’m actually interested in smoking a cigarette.

I’m smoking my cigarette, listening to a guy in a purple blazer we’ve dubbed the Set Nazi do a rendition of “Wang Dang Doodle” on his harmoni-guitar, and I’m feeling pretty satisfied with my slowly-developing cancer self.

And in the next few days I start noticing that London is lousy with cigarette rollers. The marketing guy at work, irreverent young women in cafes, teenagers breaking the law and lighting up on the Tube, all upholding my stereotype of the burly Brit rolling their nicotine. Jason would be pleased.

Sprechen ze English?

2009-08-06T08:04:00.000-07:00

No. 23: Become a citizen of Europe
No. 24: Have a pub sing-a-long
...Hunkered down on either side of our sofa, Becky and I agree to attack the Internet and purchase the cheapest airline ticket we spy, wherever it may be to.

We’re furiously typing in links to Ryan Air, STA Travel, and Easyjet, shouting city names back and forth at each other. Aberdeen, Figari, Katowice, Lamezia, Zadar. We’re calling out foreign sounds in a sort of travel Mad Libs, when I hit upon a £20 flight.

“It’s to Düsseldorf,” I tell Becky.

“Where the hell is Düsseldorf?”

“I have no idea,” I say, pulling up Wikipedia, and immediately wishing I hadn't.

I have no desire to go to Germany. When I picture myself as a jet setting world traveller I’m usually on my way to somewhere that will require costume jewellery, large sunglasses and a fake name. Something like Isadora. It does not require sausage, lederhosen or wooden shoes.

Becky’s looking as unsure as I am. I mourn the loss of Italian frescos, Greek columns and Spanish men named Carlos; I miss Zadar. But a challenge is a challenge. Heaving a great breath, we glance at each other, set our resolve, and press purchase...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12224/jewish-news-jn-597-060809/?no_login=1

Giving Thanks

2009-08-02T07:45:00.000-07:00

The story of mine and Lauren's British Thanksgiving. Though probably not something you'll find in a Charlie Brown special, it was lovely nonetheless.

No 36: Host a Sunday roast
I am a child of divorce, and as such, have despised Thanksgiving for the past decade. It’s the only day of the year for which I can’t come up with a King Solomon way of splitting my time. My mother converted to Judaism when she married my father, and has a Southern Baptist upbringing. Christian holidays are easily delegated to her side of the family, with the Jewish days of worship like Passover, Rosh Hashanah and the annual clearance day at Macy’s going to my Dad.

Thanksgiving, however, usually turns into some very un-pilgrim like behavior.

Planning to forgo the day of football and yams, I thought I’d have no problem skipping Thanksgiving, but a chance package from my dear Aunt Amy changed my story. Aunt Amy is my Grammy’s sister and specializes in the kind of flower arranging and sweet tea making that Southern women excel at. She owns a charming decorating store in Crystal River that looks like the inside of a Better Homes and Gardens feature, and sent her far-away-from-home niece an item from her holiday stock. Holding the stack of carefully packaged paper napkins with a print of feathered turkeys, I decided maybe a bit of stuffing’s not such a bad idea.

Zeddy volunteered his flat for me to host a British Thanksgiving, and I’ve been at the business of recipe scouring for four days now. I’ve been able to organize most of the traditional dishes (thrilled I was to find a jar of marshmallow fluff in my supermarket’s foreign foods section), but met a dead end when it came to pumpkin pie. And I hate pumpkin pie. Vegetables do not belong in dessert, but like the can-shaped blob of cranberry sauce that no one will touch, it’s a necessary evil on the Thanksgiving table.

Having walked into every Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Waitrose north of the Thames, I asked dozens of confused clerks if they had any canned pumpkin for sale. They looked at me like I was asking for canned pig’s intestines. Discouraged but not swayed, I watched a Martha Stewart tutorial online about how to make the stuff from scratch, a misadventure that saw me carving up a giant orange squash and baking it like a science fair project gone wrong. I was worried it would turn out a bigger disaster than the time I threw Lauren a Harry Potter birthday party and decided to boil my own pumpkin juice.

“Good Lord!” I yelp, as Zeddy slams three over-stuffed bags of breadcrumbs on the kitchen counter. I asked him to run out to the shop and pick up some supplies I’d forgotten, and he’s brought me enough breading to bake the world’s largest fish stick.

“Well I didn’t know how much you’d need,” he replies defensively before dashing to the dining room to put the finishing flourishes on his decorations. Zeddy’s been mysteriously darting in and out of there all day, and he finally calls me in to inspect his work.

Before me is a cornucopia of a table that would have certainly confused my nation’s forefathers. At each place setting a turkey napkin has been dutifully placed, but from there any logic tied to decorative pieces is lost. The place is a festive mess of happy birthday banners, leftover Halloween pumpkins and shiny red Christmas crackers. At each seat lies a box of firework sparklers. We look like we visited a going out of business sale for Parties R Us.

“Zeddy, I don’t think you quite understood the theme.”

The doorbell rings and I head to the entrance as Zeddy begins warming up some ingredients to make mulled wine. The smells of cinnamon and bourbon begin to fill the place, and I open the door to find Russell Bentley in a pale pink shirt. Russell is one of the first people I met in London, when he modeled some men’s clothes at a Stamford Hill boutique for a fashion feature I was writing in our paper’s magazine. An actor/model who used to be in EastEnders, he has brown curly hair and talks to you in such a way that you can’t tell if he wants to date you or give you a makeover.

Zeddy starts handing out mugs of his special drink as guests begin to arrive, and I’m sipping the hot red wine when Richard Ferrer pats me heartily on the back. I quickly put my cup on the counter as it threatens to spill, saying hello to Richard who immediately offers his help in the kitchen. An old friend of Zeddy’s, the pair are ex-colleagues whose greatest business pursuit was the day they decided to spend a full day working in their underwear and broadcast it on the Internet to raise money for charity. Richard is very funny, and currently searching the cupboards for something to pour my homemade gravy in.

“This’ll do,” he shouts, pulling out a cow-shaped creamer pourer.

Sitting at the table I’m pleased with the gathering we’ve drawn. Andrew is across from me and a welcome sight as he’s not asking me to read any sports pages. Jonny has come with his incredibly pregnant wife and they’re discussing why Americans put so much sugar in their foods with Russell, who’s helping himself to seconds of marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes.

Lauren’s wedged between Richard and Zeddy’s friend Lucy, a trendy-looking woman who works for the BBC.

“Erica, what’s this called?” Lucy asks between forkfuls.

“It’s green bean casserole,” I tell her.

“How unusual.”

Between the mulled wine and the company, I’m feeling warmly content. People are eating the food and no one’s fallen over from salmonella poisoning. Richard’s cutting into a turkey leg with the blue plastic freshness tag still stuck on, but he doesn’t seem bothered, and I’m thinking Thanksgiving’s not so bad after all. Though an unusual approach to remembering that first giving of praise, I believe a few new traditions have been forged this evening, especially now that I’ve seen how attractive a pumpkin pie looks with a lit sparkler sticking out of the top.

Guinness Guide

2009-08-01T07:19:00.000-07:00

No. 22: Learn to appreciate Guinness

When I was in Florida over the holidays, my Uncle Barry gave me a lecture during our Hanukkah dinner on The Importance of Drinking Guinness. I think it was one of Oscar Wilde’s lesser known plays.

Barry is a man who knows his drinking, working in the liquor distributing industry and making several trips each year to cities in Ireland and Germany to sample the local brews. While I trust his judgment, I was nevertheless skeptical about my ability to enjoy the thick, black drink, but told him I would do my best.

“I cannot believe you’re drinking that,” Becky shouts over the calamity of noise, as we stand in the middle of a St. Patrick’s Day celebration in one of London’s Irish pubs. I’ve ordered the drink a few times before in my quest to find something redeemable about it, but as I’ve yet to find the draught tasty, I’ve decided to use the holiday as an excuse to make a concerted effort, which I predict to mean lots and lots of falling down.

Beside me, Rebecca tells the barman that she’ll take a Guinness as well.

“I cannot believe you’re drinking that!” Becky now shouts at Rebecca.

The mood in the pub is festive as we begin sipping our sludge, Irish music playing overhead but drowned out by the chanting of the overly imbibed crowd. People are dressed for the occasion, with green top hats, faux red beards and strings of beads adorning our fellow drinkers. I’ve taken to picking up deserted costume pieces that I’ve found around the pub, and am currently wearing a glow in the dark headband and four leaf clover banner around my neck.

We walk past a lively group of lads dressed in Irish football jerseys, and a little guy with a scruffy beard grabs Rebecca’s hand and twirls her around.

“Do you know how to jig?” he yells at us, before going into a fast dance step that looks less like a jig and more like an epileptic fit. We’re trying to follow his moves and the rest of the football crew joins us, as we form a circle of Michael Flatley wannabes, sloshing our Guinness on the floor.

Rebecca goes to buy another round, and comes back excited to show me the four leaf clover the bartender has drawn into the top of her foam.

“No! Rebecca, they draw the clover when they know you’re an amateur Guinness drinker. That guy thinks he has you pegged.”

“How rude!” she exclaims, and continues to drink her pint in the way we practiced, taking care to finish the drink in ten perfect gulps, as WikiHow has instructed.

By the end of our second rounds, we’re both realizing Guinness makes one very, very happy. Becky shakes her head at us, happily sticking to her cider. We jig over to the bar and Rebecca puts in a third order while I watch Becky arguing with a guy over why she would not, in fact, like to give him her drink.

“Erica!” Rebecca squeals from beside me.”I didn’t get a clover!”

I look at the tops of our glasses and notice they are indeed without clover. Success. I look behind me to see that Becky’s argumentative gentleman has gotten the best of her and is now chugging her cider, and I dutifully put in another order.

Prime Time

2009-07-30T05:35:00.001-07:00

No. 21: Take a meeting with the prime minister
No. 40: Become a Whig

...“Hello, I’m Tony Blair.”

I’m shaking Tony Blair’s hand wondering why he thinks he needs to make clear to me what his name is.

Justin’s looking very professional with a list of hard hitting questions for Blair, who has spent the last two years acting as the UN’s envoy to the Quartet of the Middle East, while I stand quietly in the background and try not to knock anything over.

We offer Tony a Jewish News care package chock full of plastic rulers, pens and water bottles, and the Labour politico sifts through the bag.

“We’ve brought you our very own Jewish News water,” Justin boasts proudly.

“Fantastic,” Tony replies as he takes a swig. “And what’s special about it?”

Justin pauses.

“Well, it has our name on it.”

Justin and Blair are chatting about Iran, Gaza and falafels, and I’m doing my best to act like a person who makes a living as a professional journalist. Perched on a sofa across from the pair, wearing my smartest work suit and a pair of very uncomfortable high heels, I’m holding the camera as upright as possible, urging my hand to be as still as a tripod. I’m fairly successful, but about 30 seconds in, my arm begins to ache.

Never mind, I’m an international political correspondent, I can work through the pain.

Must. Not. Drop. Camera.

I’m slowly but surely sliding to my right, in a gradual move that eventually sees my elbow land on the armrest next to me. The support gives my throbbing arm relief, and I’m hoping the gliding motion will look like some sort of arty special effect on the film, and not like the kaleidoscope shaking I suspect I’ve just created...

To read the full colum follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12211/jewish-news-jn-596-300709/?no_login=1

Tony with official Jewish News water.
Justin doing his thing.

I probably said something funny here.

Script Writer Jumps from TV to Stage

2009-07-24T04:26:00.000-07:00

No 35: Get behind the West End

I was recently able to interview popular British sitcom writer Laurence Marks, who has written the book for a new West End musical, Dreamboats and Petticoats, which debuted this week in London.

TV scriptwriter makes his Marks as he switches his talent to a live stage production
By Erica Morris

Scriptwriting may not be a huge departure for legendary Jewish television writer Laurence Marks, but setting that script to music is certainly something of a unique occurrence. It was a situation the British writer was happy to find himself in, however, as the premiere of Dreamboats and Petticoats debuted in London this week.

With a book created by Marks and longtime writing partner Maurice Gran, the duo who brought audiences hits like The New Statesman and Birds of a Feather has been reunited for a musical experience that may look like an oldie, but is definitely a goodie.

"It's a remarkable story of how this musical came to be," the 60-year-old writer comments. "There was this compilation album of songs from the 50s, with artists like Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry, that sort of thing, and it was doing incredibly well in the charts. And somebody thought, 'You know, there ought to be a musical made out of this.'"

To read the full interview follow this link: http://www.totallyjewish.com/entertainment/features_and_reviews/?content_id=12161

Professional Loud Mouth & Morris Morris Dancing

2009-07-23T05:06:00.000-07:00

No. 19: Be Town Crier for a day
No. 20: Learn to morris dance

...“Can I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen!” the Crier cries as we step out onto the busy walkway of the South Bank. He wasn’t kidding about the volume.

“This young lady here is a newspaper reporter from America, and like all Americans, she thinks she can do my job better than me. So we’re going to give her a try!”

Talk about be careful what you wish for. A sea of pedestrians is now looking at me curiously as Peter begins draping his coat over my shoulders, placing his cap on my head and his bell in my hand. He’s also watching me as if certain I know where to go from here.

I’m racking my thoughts for some sort of English gem worthy of sharing with these folks. The Pledge of Allegiance is the only thing I’m coming up with, but reciting an oath to my American flag doesn’t seem very appropriate, and I inwardly curse my seventh grade history teacher Mr. Thompson for not better preparing me for this day.

“The sun never sets on the British flag!” I shout. People seem slightly mollified but still expectant. “London is very foggy! And God save the Queen!”...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12160/jewish-news-jn-595-230709/?no_login=1

With Love from Wimbledon

2009-07-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

No. 18: Have strawberries and cream at Wimbledon

...“I think I can get us into Wimbledon for Sunday,” Andrew Sherwood tells me the next morning. I’m relieved, as he is our sports editor and able to get into these types of events without waiting in the queue-which-shall-not-be-named. Andrew makes a phone call, is told it’s fine to bring me along, and I am able to relax in the knowledge that I can safely complete my mission and attend the final day of Wimbledon.

I’m feeling pretty casual about the whole thing. The tournament has been going on for two weeks, and I figure it must be winding down by now. I’m confident that fans have got the tennis-watching out of their systems at this point, and the last day of the grand slam will prove a relaxing, unstressed event.

I’m relating this theory to Zeddy over the phone just before I’m set to go when he informs me of my mistake. “Do you mean to tell me you’re attending the men’s finals?”

This sounds vaguely like what Andrew described to me, and I am then filled in on what a significant match I’ll be watching. Apparently, this is a big deal. It’s augmented by the fact that my American friend Roddick will be playing Roger Federer, the Swiss phenomenon who is one win away from breaking Pete Sampras’ record for the most Wimbledon wins of all time.

As we walk with a mass of people from the Southfields Tube station to the All England Club’s overwhelming tennis complex, I do my best to impress Andrew with my new-found respect and understanding of what we’ll be taking part in.

“So, Wimbledon takes place every year?”

Apparently, I am less impressive than I thought, and my colleague asks me to please not walk so close to him...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 27: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12122/jewish-news-jn-594-160709/?no_login=1

Satire with Sanrda Bernhard

2009-07-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

Here's an interview I was able to do with comedian Sandra Bernhard a few months ago. She was very brash, and I was able to see her show in Leicester Square following our interview. ..

It seems it's not all slapstick and satire for American comedienne Sandra Bernhard, who is taking some time out this month from jokes and jests to do some Pesach preparations, ahead of a UK tour next month.
Speaking to the Jewish News this week, the 53-year-old funny woman shared her yom tov plans.
"We'll actually be at my daughter's dentist's home for first night Seder," said the legendary lesbian stand-up comic and sitcom star. "I'm not sure where we'll be for second night - we might go to our Chabad.
"Right now we're just working on getting all of the chametz out of the house, which is a big job, but I get my daughter involved and it's a lot of fun."
But it's not just at Pesach that Bernhard's big on Yiddishkeit. "I try to keep things spiritual in my house," she revealed, "but I'm not dogmatic about it. I do go to my synagogue every week to hear the Torah, and we keep Shabbat. I feel a very strong connection to Judaism, it's a big part of who I am."

To read the full story click here: http://www.totallyjewish.com/news/national/?content_id=11574

Racing at Ascot, Scoring at Polo

2009-07-09T02:28:00.000-07:00

#16: Become Eliza Doolittle
#17: Learn to play polo
...I’m peering up from underneath the brim of my hat, waiting to catch a glimpse of the Duke of Edinburgh. I might be the only attendee at Ascot who would lay claim to that want, the more predictable draw being Her Majesty the Queen, but as I’ve already had the privilege of attending an event with Elizabeth in the past I’m keen for a new acquaintance. It’s like I’m collecting a royal deck of cards, and Prince Philip will make a nice pair.
As Her Majesty and His Royal Highness ride by in their horse and carriage, I can almost hear the strains of a Frederick Loewe overture. I wave my hand, wishing I had a dainty handkerchief to throw in the air, while watching the procession. As they drive past, I’m convinced I see Philip wink in my direction...

***

...Will asks me if I’ve ever actually ridden before, and my cover is blown already.
“That’s all right. This pony here is very tame, she’s great for learners.”
I’m looking the horse in the eye, trying to psychically convey to her a pact that I will not harm her so long as she doesn’t throw me in the air and tromp on me. I feel mildly confident that we’re in accord, and I climb aboard.
“Erica, take the ball to the goal!”
William is encouraging me forward, setting up easy shots that I have the audacity to miss on each try. I suspect my horse is working against me, we can’t seem to agree on a direction to trot in, and coach advises I give her a good kick.
I am suddenly galloping much faster than intended...

To read the full column, follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12083/jewish-news-jn-593-090709/?no_login=1 Sorry it's sideways!

London's Very Own Superhero

2009-07-08T05:40:00.000-07:00

There's a fuzzy green man roaming the streets of England, and it isn't a hobo. Shrub Man is definitely a superhero for the modern age, attacking environmental bad guys by replacing weeds with pretty posies:

The self-styled Human Shrub, covered in green foliage, struck for the second time on Sunday when he replaced weeds with flowers to transform dormant plant containers in Colchester, eastern England.
The shrub, whose identity remains a secret, first emerged earlier this year when he protested in full plant regalia outside the town hall against Colchester council's plan to turf over rose beds to save money. He waved a banner urging people to "save his brothers the shrubs, and sisters the roses".
The council reversed its decision to tear out and grass over one in five roadside flower beds in Colchester following protests, in an affair dubbed "shrubgate" by opposition councillors.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2009/jul/08/human-shrub-colchester

I should be surprised, but London's had a serious overflow of superheroes lately, so I guess it's just par for the course...

Monty Python Together Again

2009-07-07T05:46:00.000-07:00

Monty Python will celebrate its Ruby Jubilee (that's 40th anniversary to you and me) later this year on stage at London's infamous Royal Albert Hall, with the European premiere of Eric Idle and John Du Prez’s "Not The Messiah (He's a Very Naughty Boy)" on October 23.
Starring Idle (baritonish) with guest appearances from fellow Pythons Michael Palin, Terry Jones & Terry Gilliam and Carol Cleveland & Neil Innes, Not The Messiah (He’s a Very Naughty Boy), will feature William Ferguson (Brian) Shannon Mercer (Judith), Rosalind Plowright (Mandy), Christopher Purves (Reg) and the BBC Symphony Orchestra and Chorus, conducted by Prez.
Monty Python’s Flying Circus first aired on the BBC on October 5, 1969. The television series, originally broadcast from 1969 to 1974, was conceived, written and performed by Graham Chapman, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Terry Jones and Michael Palin. After the immense popularity of the television series, Monty Python continued its global domination with three films, stage tours, numerous albums, books and a stage musical, launching the members to individual stardom.
Idle said: “It is rare you get to be silly on a mass scale. This work was commissioned by the Toronto Luminato Festival in 2007 where it was conducted by my cousin Peter Oundjian with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. It was performed later that year in Australia and New Zealand, including two sell-out nights at The Sydney Opera House, and last year at the Wolf Trap to 7,000 with the Washington Symphony, in Houston with the Houston Symphony, culminating in two nights at The Hollywood Bowl (to 19,000 people) with the LA Philharmonic and fireworks. It tells the tragic tale of Mandy, impregnated by a Roman soldier, giving birth to Brian, a reluctant revolutionary who falls in love with Judith, gets mistaken for a Messiah and is condemned to death. It ranges in reference from Handel, through a naughty Mozart duet, to the Festival of Nine Carols, Bob Dylan, and the classic finale Always Look On The Bright Side of Life.”
Visit www.PythOnline.com for updated information on all the 40th anniversary events.

Happy Python-ing!

Ron Needs Swine Flu Potion!

2009-07-06T02:43:00.000-07:00

Just one day before the London premiere of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, Rupert Grint has been reported to be recuperating from Swine Flu! He was apparently diagnosed with the illness and had to take time off last week from filming the seventh installment of the series, Deathly Hallows.

This is very upsetting, not least of all because it might dampen my plans to attack the ginger-haired actor at the Leicester Square red carpet tomorrow.

Rupert's publicist said: "Rupert has now recovered and is looking forward to joining his fellow cast members at the premieres of Harry Potter and the HalfBlood Prince this week and will then return to filming directly afterwards."

Read the full story here.

Obama and the Mouse

2009-07-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

You've just become the leader of the free world, what are you going to do next?

President Obama has finally been added to the Hall of Presidents attraction at Walt Disney World. It's an animatronic show that highlights every US president throughout history, using robotic figurines to tell the American story. Obama has made his debut, giving the closing speech for the educational attraction, and I can now rest easy that after eight years of Bush-in-wax, I can re-enter the site.

Here's a video of the process:

And here's the finished product:

Also, in honor of the 4th, one of my favorite poems, by Emma Lazarus, a Jewish immigrant who wrote the iconic prose "The New Colossus":

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she with silent lips.
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

YouTube and Me

2009-07-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone! I am very excited to announce I've begun uploading videos on my own YouTube channel. It's something I've been meaning to do for a while, but I couldn't quite figure it out. Thanks to a very helpful friend I've now got it running, and you can visit by clicking here.
I'm really annoyed that I didn't have this figured out earlier, but I've gone back and added lots of videos throughout my blog posts...

Hope you enjoy them, and let me know if you all like the new look of the site! Happy 4th everyone!

Michael Jackson: The Musical

2009-07-03T08:17:00.000-07:00

It may not be his comeback gig at the O2, but lucky Londoners can still catch a Michael Jackson spectacular. Thriller Live is a West End musical that's been running since February, but has had a reinvention since the passing of the King of Pop. I've seen the show twice and it's a lot of good fun, especially with a few cocktails. For anyone who will be in the London area, the Jewish News is giving away five free pairs of tickets. To win log onto http://www.totallyjewish.com/entertainment/competition/ and test your MJ trivia!

Scotland Yard

2009-07-02T02:03:00.000-07:00

No. 12: Discover haunted Britain
No. 13: Find the Loch Ness Monster
No. 14: Play the bagpipes
No. 15: Get royal crest

...Our guide is speaking very seriously for a dude wearing stockings, pantaloons and a feathered cap, and brings us to a wax statue of a man in a black coat and a long beak-like mask.
“The foulis clenger,” our guide intones in a voice that should be accompanied by wiggling fingers, “the brave man who went in after the wretched plague had gripped its victim, sent in to ease their suffering and made to clean out the rotting corpses of the defiled area.”
I refrain from asking this man why, when someone is so horribly afflicted by disease, people would think it wise to send in to the poor soul someone dressed like the bad guy from I Know What You Did Last Summer...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-12045/jewish-news-jn-592-20709/?no_login=1

Hats Off for Summer

2009-06-24T03:06:00.000-07:00

In this month's issue of my paper's lifestyle magazine Pulse, I was sent to try on hats for the London summer season. For some reason, my colleagues think I enjoy parading around in funny outfits.

Travelling Yentl Style

2009-06-18T09:11:00.000-07:00

No. 37: Have a religious reformation

Shalom! I've just returned from my first trip to Israel, a press tour visiting Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, and had a fantastic time. I'm feeling very holy...

Here I am in my room. The holiness of my surroundings has obviously already made me more light.

These timers were in each of the rooms, so observers of Shabbat could arrange for their light to come on automatically.

Likewise, each entryway in the whole of Israel was fitted with a mezuzzah. This included hotel rooms, bathrooms, garages, outdoor markets...

Gay pride parade in Tel Aviv!

Carmel Market is a very busy place with delicious falaffel.This is Jaffa, an ancient port city. It's where Jonah was swallowed by the big fish. How biblical am I?! We drove to the top of the Mount of Olives and had a lovely view of the whole of Jerusalem. Jerusalem was my favorite part of the trip, you could really feel the spirituality and history of the place. It was very peaceful there, and very interesting to watch how the Christian, Jewish and Muslim communities interacted and lived in this space that they all hold so dear.

Here I am at the Western Wall. I was able to visit it twice, once at night and once during the day, and it was a very moving experience. I left my favorite Hebrew prayer in the wall and really enjoyed standing at the ancient spot.

This is just outside the Holy Sepulchre, which is where Jesus is believed to have been buried and resurrected. We followed the path of his crucifixion, there are spots that are clearly marked as where various parts of the story took place. We also visited the space believed to have been where the last supper took place, and the spot Mother Mary is believed to have died. It was very interesting to learn about.

A video looking down at Jerusalem.

Bee-coming a Footballer

2009-06-11T04:23:00.000-07:00

No 11: Become a pro-footballer

...Mr Bumble’s star status warrants him his own dressing room, a small corner in the stock area of the club’s merchandise trailer, and this is where I find my subject one sunny Saturday, stripped to his shorts and waving hello.
It’s not exactly a locker room full of half dressed football players, but it’s certainly an unusual situation.
Notepad in hand, I’m doing my best impression of a professional journalist about to interview a half naked bumble bee, spouting of technical questions about method, strategy and form, and ask the Bee Man if he has any pre-match rituals to prepare himself for a game.
“Well, I always like to meet up with me mates at the pub before a game. Get a few pints in then I’m ready to go!”
I like this guy already...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 18: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11945/jewish-news-jn-589-110609/?no_login=1

Brrr...It's Cold In Here

2009-06-08T15:44:00.000-07:00

I awoke last Saturday to a frightening phenomenon. It is cold again in London. One week of temperatures hitting the 70s (enough to make all the Brits slather on sunscreen and fan themselves in the Tube) and we've reverted back to winter, sloughing through 40 degree temperature. I actually had to put the heater on.
In an ode to this whacky English weather, I'm posting some pics of my favorite winter moments from the past season. November through February were some of the most painful months of my life, but I lived (barely), and here is my triumphant story of ice, slush and hail:

Our first snow here was October 28. Yes, October. This does not make me confident for my chances of a snow-less June.

Unaware of how flippin brutal the cold would get, us Florida girls were pretty excited the first time the snow happened. We were so thrilled, our glasses fell off.
Becky and I had a snow fight...
It got dirty.
Snow angels in our 'garden.'
Time to make a Frosty!

Becky seemed upset I destroyed the angels for this. Ah well, all in the name of art.

Ta da! He had Coke caps for eyes!

Coke Man got a friend.
Michelle Kwan I am not, but I sure can point at stuff!

If you look in the far right bottom corner, there is a tiny snow caterpillar that I made. I'm told Martha Stewart makes them all the time, except she uses a melon baller for hers.

A Figment of Speech

2009-06-04T06:59:00.000-07:00

# 10: Rant at Speaker's Corner

...There’s a pretty gazebo-like building across from me, the Speaker’s Corner Café, doling out popsicles and lemonade in a way that feels wholly inappropriate, as I hear one woman yell “the whores of the world will perish!” I look to be the only one around who appreciates the irony- the rest of the Brits seem to regard the scene as incredibly normal.
I suppose they are used to the spectacle. Officially christened as a spot for public speaking in 1872 by the Royal Parks and Garden’s Act, the infamous corner has been host to political tirades from notable enthusiasts like Karl Marx, Lenin and George Orwell. And now, a nice Jewish girl from South Florida...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 21: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11920/jewish-news-jn-588-040609/?no_login=1

Watch videos of my speech by becoming my friend on Facebook. Just click on the button to the right of this post!

Getting Stoned

2009-05-30T17:02:00.001-07:00

No. 8: Stand inside Stonehenge
No. 9: Spend the weekend in the country

...I was dragged to Stonehenge that first time kicking and screaming. I saw no point in visiting, didn't want to spend the hour-and-a-half it took to get there by train, and was naturally affronted when I arrived at the site's hometown of Salisbury to discover I wouldn't even be able to rub the rocks like they were a great big belly of Buddha. Not only are you forbidden from touching the stones, but you can't even stand next to them! A tiny gate circles the formation, and tourists are made to snap photos and point from a safe distance.

To me, the site was nothing more than an old pile of rocks, put there for God knows why, taunting me with a giant 'Please Don't Touch' sign.
Obviously, two years on, I had to right this injustice...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 19: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11878/jewish-news-jn-587-280509/?no_login=1

Bye Bye Buddies

2009-05-28T04:04:00.000-07:00

A farewell to my three dear friends, Becky, Lauren and Rebecca- because they came with me.

...Who else but true friends would dress up in medieval garb in Salisbury, spring for the grand tea at the Orangery or stand in the cold with me to catch a glimpse of Daniel Radcliffe parading around Piccadilly Circus for a scene from the next Harry Potter film?
I’m reflecting on these zany and sometimes ridiculous excursions with great appreciation right now, as by the time you read this, these charming girls will have migrated home to the states. If there is a season for everything, now would be the season of Virgin Airlines, and I currently find myself in a flat fit for four but housing just one...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 16: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11878/jewish-news-jn-587-280509/?no_login=1

The Sahara: It's Sandy!

2009-05-21T11:21:00.001-07:00

Greetings from sunny Tunisia! I recently returned from a five-day press trip to the lovely North African country, where I was able to take part in one of the most exotic holidays I could imagine. I've included some photos and videos below to try and describe the experience, though I'm afraid words and images don't do it justice. It was really incredibly amazing!

We spent our first day at a Jewish festival on the island of Djerba. We visited a synagogue, a yeshiva (Jewish school), and joined in a little market set up for the event with rabbis passing out glasses of liquor. It was very different than any shul experience I've ever had.

After our Jewish festivities, we visited a 1,000-year-old mosque and met Tunisia's head imam, who spoke about the great relationship beween North African Jews and Muslims, where the two religions live not just peacefully, but as good friends. I kept noticing signs in the villages, with Arab writing right on top of Hebrew.

Tunisia is filled with some of the most vibrant pottery. Residents use their immense supply of sand, mix it with water, fire it then paint it gorgeous colors. Everywhere you looked there were hundreds of bowls, plates and lamps and they were all unique looking. I got to go into an underground dwelling (that was really more like a cave) and watch two men make the stuff. It was dark and the floor was all sand with flickering candles. It felt like Aladdin's Cave of Wonders.

This was an area with 500 year old mud huts. You could climb in and out of each hut by tiny little ladders, and a man there showed me how to jump from each one to walk on the roofs, where you had the most amazing view of the entire desert.

We spent a lot of time driving through mountain terrain, and we would stop every now and then to look around. There are small clusters where people live in tiny homes carved out of the actual rock of the mountain, and the peopl we met there were incredibly kind, often inviting us inside to look at their houses.

In the villages we stopped at, women were weaving rugs and they would stop to show us their work. It made for a very colorful backdrop to the cream colored desert.

We rode camels through the Sahara; mine was named Caramel. We were surrounded by sand, you couldn't see anything but the dunes, and it was very cool. You felt completely isolated and couldn't hear anything but the sand whipping around.

Fancy That

2009-05-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

My mates and I have a habit of dressing in costume. A lot. I blame this on my years in theatre. I don't know what their excuse is...

Distress Signals

2009-05-16T07:59:00.001-07:00

#6: Paddle around with parasol
#7: Be a damsel in distress
...Zeddy is towering above me trying to figure out how to move.
"I don't understand why we're going backwards," he states as he juts the pole into the riverbed below.
I would use this opportunity to make fun but I have no room to mock, as I soon take my own turn at the sten and have to resort to sitting down and using the pole to paddle as if it were a pair of oars. I look like some sort of modern day Sacagawea without the poise...
To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 25: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11796/jewish-news-jn-585-140509/?no_login=1

Hats Amore!

2009-05-08T09:14:00.000-07:00

In an effort to use up a back log of highly unusual photos, I'm starting a weekly feature of themed pics. Let's call it Photo Friday, cause I like alliteration. This week's theme: Funny hats. And no, I have no idea why we have so many...

Rebecca at the London Zoo. We also think it's creepy.

At a vintage shop in Salisbury. Mine has eyelashes.

Not sure why I look like a saloon girl, but what can you do?

At Koko's in Camden. Lauren's piece also had a top hat above the netting. It was fabulous.

Trying on hats in Camden market.

OK, I know Becky and I don't have on head gear here, but we really liked what was happening behind us.

Getting knighted after Stonehenge.

We were celebrating Purim at a pub in Kentish Town. Those leaves were difficult to spray paint. But it was worth it, Rebecca is so Jewish now!

It says Deutschland. Guess where we were...

To see more photos, become my friend on Facebook...just click the button on the side of this page!

Facebook, Twitter and Blogs, Oh My!

2009-05-07T04:49:00.000-07:00

A recuperating editor saw a hectic schedule this week, and today's issue has no new Erica from America. I did however fill in for Zeddy's weekly column, as he heals at home...

...“It’s called Twitter, and you could use it to let people know when you’ve updated your posts.”
Twitter?! Now this I knew to truly be an evil, soul-killing website. My three flatmates had become virtual slaves to the thing of late, posting messages all day every day, be we walking through Hyde Park or eating some Tex-Mex in Leicester Square. I refused to be taken down by this cyber zombie!
An hour later, Rebecca had my Twitter account up and running. She asked me what I would like my first post to be, and when I told her to type in “I hate Twitter”, she promptly took up the duty of writing my messages for me.
How had this happened? I now find myself uploading silly photos to my blog, decorating my Twitter page with purple glitter stars and taking incessant Facebook quizzes like ‘Which Steel Magnolias Character Are You?’...

To read the full column turn to page 16 at this link: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11750/jewish-news-jn-584-70509/?no_login=1

The Canterbury Canter

2009-04-30T03:46:00.000-07:00

#5: Have a Canterbury Tale

...Sitting in The George the night before we are set to make our journey, I can’t help but feel we aren’t quite getting the full experience. There is certainly a lively atmosphere akin to an ancient public house- a Spanish tourist has kindly spilled his ale on my left boot- but it’s not feeling very Chaucerian.
My spirits are lifted however, after remembering that somewhere near this coaching inn lies one of London’s ubiquitous blue plaques commemorating what the area means for purveyors of the written word.
Armed with our half drunk bottle of wine, one glass to share between the four of us and absolutely no idea where to find what we are looking for, my flatmates and I set out. With Zeddy spouting off Googled directions through my mobile, acting as some sort of poor man’s sat nav, we look like a team on a game show where one blindfolded contestant makes their way across a busy highway as a mate shouts out “stop, turn left, now quick, jump out of the way of that lorry!”...

To read the full column follow this link and turn to page 23: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11705/jewish-news-jn-583-300409/?no_login=1

Popbitch!

2009-04-24T04:42:00.000-07:00

This guilty pleasure is one of the best things about Fridays in the UK. An internet source that provides weekly gossip about celebs and hilarious news bytes from around the world, you can sign up to have each issue emailed to you directly. It's like a 60 second news feed that gives you seven days worth of tabloid fodder.

Click here to learn about daggering, and why it's affecting so many male members in Jamaica...
www.popbitch.com

Happy Birthday Shakespeare!

2009-04-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

Birthday greetings to the Bard, who would have been 445-years-old on the anniversary of his birth this year. Baptised on 26 April 1564, no one knows the exact date of Will's birth, but the glorious day is usually celebrated on St George's Day, 23 April.

Here's wishing him 445 more!

Hanging 'Round the Round Table

2009-04-23T05:20:00.000-07:00

#2: Spend the night in a castle
#3: Find Camelot
#4: Go sheep herding

...Stepping into the foyer of the place feels like I’m walking onto a film set. The heavy revolving door groans as we push through and we are standing in a dark wood and stone foyer dripping with a large chandelier. There is an eerie silence- one half expects to hear a crack of lightning, a scream, and a dead body fall to the floor.
This doesn’t happen, but a small French man in tails does appear as if from nowhere, leading us to a lounge and disappearing again before I can ask him when Professor Plum will be arriving...

To read the full column turn to page 21 at this link: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11667/jewish-news-jn-582-230409/?no_login=1

Shakespeare's Stage Secrets

2009-04-22T13:52:00.000-07:00

#1: Recite a monologue at the Globe

...Standing onstage where countless Macbeths, Hamlets and Pucks had stood before might be achievement enough, but I got it into my silly little American head that I should try and weasel a performance out of the experience.
Riding on the tube heading towards the South Bank, I clutch the small piece of paper with my hurriedly scrawled out monologue, reciting the words over and over- no doubt looking like a slightly deranged young woman speaking to herself in Olde English- before arriving at my destination...

To read the full column, turn to page 21 at this link: http://www.totallyjewish.com/the_jewish_news/view/c-11610/jewish-news-jn-581-170409/?no_login=1

Flatmates

2009-04-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

Everyone likes a story with pictures, so here are some shots of peeps who's names you'll be hearing a lot. This is me, your narrator, Erica.

Below are my three lovely American flatmates.

Here's Lauren, she loves candy and cartoons. She'll also knock your face off if you kick a puppy.

This is Rebecca; she likes to read books, wear cardigans and shake her head at me in dismay.

And this is Becky. She is a tree loving hippie who drinks water. A lot.