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.