When I stepped off the plane at Heathrow airport five months ago today, my mind was full of aspirations and goals for what was to become a grand adventure. Having read enough novels to know what generally happens to a young American woman who moves to a European country to find herself, I had a pretty good idea of how my stay would go: I would, at first, have difficulty navigating this strange and new land. A series of lost Tube maps, language barriers and defunct sitcom pratfalls would act as stumbling blocks, but ultimately strengthen my resolve and lead to a transformation whereby I would emerge confident, capable and savvy, probably with a new and stylish hairstyle to boot.
Then one day, I would happen upon a foppish young man at a café who didn’t have enough change to pay for his latte, so I’d offer up a few pence and we would get to know one another over a shared love of caffeine and foreigners.
Naturally, by the time we had fallen in love I would discover he was heir to a powerful dukedom, a fact he had kept hidden from me in an effort to let me see ‘the real him’, an attempt I would learn to accept upon seeing the handsome Scottish castle we would spend our happily ever after in.
Or something like that.
Here on Earth, it was only a year ago that I was living in sunny South Florida, nursing a broken heart and earning my keep as a journalist at a newspaper bringing weekly news to the Jewish community, when I decided I’d had enough of the blue skies and beaches and would like to trade ‘em in for some more challenging weather. After bludgeoning the staff at the London Jewish News with relentless emails basically pleading for employment, I eventually secured an invitation to join the editorial team, a first step in what would prove to be a compelling and plot-turning story of its own.
It was only a fortnight after I officially began reporting to the London masses that I found myself face to face with Gordon Brown at a UJIA dinner on Park Lane. I had precariously positioned myself in the path of No 10’s exit, when the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland walked up to me, shook my hand and asked me if I had enjoyed the speech he had given. I told him that I had.
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Then, just six weeks after my chat with Gordo, I found myself walking the halls of Clarence House to witness an official handshake between Prince Charles and Israeli President Shimon Peres. And when I stood next to Chuck (that’s what his friends call him) only four days later at a gathering of survivors from the Kindertransport, I realised I was now acquainted enough with the Prince of Wales to speak authoritatively on a number of royal subjects, from how Camilla likes to organise her gardening tools to how England’s next king takes his tea: a splash of milk, one sugar.
When I stood in front of Queen Elizabeth two weeks later for the opening of a Jewish care home, I knew something had to be done.
Somehow, I’d hit the jackpot in British pixie dust and had to find a way to harness this magical power for the common good and/or personal gain. A series of conversations with Jewish News Editor Zeddy Lawrence, who would prove to be something of a sensei-like advisor in this story, gave rise to the idea of the great UK Challenge, a plan to put myself in the centre of authentic, or as the case may be, blatantly stereotypical British experiences.
A perpetual anglophile, I’ve been stockpiling images and icons of English culture for more than two decades, so I knew I had plenty of material to draw upon: the staunch gracefulness of an unbending Henry Higgins as he smugly stirs his tea, a pipe-smoking Holmes getting elementary with Watson, the prejudices of Lizzie Bennett and the pride of Mr Darcy (or was it the other way around?).
When it came to London liturgy, I was pretty sure I knew how to play the game.
What resulted was a laundry list of things to see and do whilst in England, an ultimate wish fulfilment guide stuffed with the types of experiences one imagines the heroine in some great tourism novel to embark upon. And in the weeks to come, if readers will oblige me, I’ll aim to chronicle my adventures within this blog.
Some of my plans may be reaching a bit too far (if I actually find myself on set of the next Harry Potter film I’ll consider this challenge a job well done), but the point of this exercise isn’t necessarily to finish with a long list of checkmarks behind me. Where there are failures, so be it, but if I can succeed in only a handful of these missions I’m sure the person who comes out the end of it will be more confident, capable and savvy.
Plus, I’ve already had my hair cut.
...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.
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.
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