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.

New Do

Last week I was treated to a cut and color at HOB salon for a feature in my company's magazine, Pulse. Here is my hairdo transformation:

Consumer Stress

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.