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.