Goodbye Is the Hardest Word

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. 38: Learn who Guy Fawkes is

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

“Your grasp of British history is truly astounding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m finding it very cold.”

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

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

“British-ey things. Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm, yes, quite.”

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

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

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

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

Identity Theft is Unladylike

No. 34: Dine with a lord and lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pottery Barn

No. 33: Learn a medieval trade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I respond. “English.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, from America.”

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

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

Pub Crawl

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

No. 32: Get my own local

Halloween in London sucks.

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

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

Apparently, it’s a Yankee thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I excuse myself to find the ladies’ restroom.

A View From the Left

No 31: Drive on the left side of the road

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

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

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

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

“Why aren’t I moving?”

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

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

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

Consumer Stress

No. 30: Have a shopping spree at Harrods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Queen Bee

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's Up, Holmes?

No. 27: Help Scotland Yard solve a crime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah. Ask a stupid question.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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