Scattershot thoughts

I'm spending the last day of 2006 getting ready for 2007.

Namely, this means taking down the Christmas tree.

Normally, I would leave the tree up until Epiphany, January 6. But this year the tree took matters into its own hands by shedding nearly every needle in a shower of green, carpeting our carpet a quarter-inch thick in prickly, not even all that fragrant debris. We ordered it from the same company who delivered last year's tree, a gorgeous, well-behaved fir that stayed pliant and fresh throughout the festive season. We're not quite sure what happened this year - we filled the stand with water and tree food, we placed it away from radiators and other sources of heat, we festooned it with cheerful lights and glass ornaments. But the tree has clearly had enough of our company and is dying - literally - to leave. The poor thing is a bare brown twig skeleton. Oh well, off you go to the council recycling program on Tuesday. May you be happier in your next incarnation.

I'm also catching up on newspaper reading. In the 24 December Sunday TImes Style magazine, Bethan Cole mentions that she has been to the US twice in the last two weeks - oy, the jet lag and the carbon emissions - and she has two whole thoughts on the experience. One, bring Anthropologie to the UK. A sentiment I heartily endorse, even if Bethan completely missed Anthropologie's USP (and Bethan, if it is Korres body lotion you are after, try the link or your local John Lewis. Or pop across the Channel and go to Monoprix, aka the French Target.)

Bethan's second complete thought is that American nail bars offer good value. I'm not sure what an American nail "bar" is - unlike the Brits, Americans don't need to relate eveything to alcohol - but yes, American nail salons are far more cost effective than anything in the UK. This is why my cuticles are ragged, my hang nails hang all ten, and my nails are split and uneven. I ain't paying $40 for a basic polish job.

What Bethan failed to point out is that almost EVERYTHING is better value in the US than the UK. It's called an "exchange rate," dear Bethan, and at the moment the US dollar is very weak compared to the pound. It's all well and good that Bethan is calling for cheap manicure/pedicure options in the UK - hey, I'd be happy, but then I am easily pleased- but how can a nail technician earn a living wage in London if only charging US rates? It's not like the cost of living here will also be accordingly adjusted. And that's assuming that manicurists even make a living wage in the US.

No, sadly, mani/pedis in the UK remain a treat, high on the self indulgent scale. And that's okay.

Not the most erudite thoughts as we enter 2007, but hey, blame the Sunday Times for today's shallow post.

And a very happy New Year to all!

Semi-Annual Theatre Review: Part Three

Picking up where I left off...

A Midsummer Night's Dream at Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park
While we've seen some great Shakespeare during the RSC Complete Works Festival, this production was one of our favorite interpretations of the Bard in 2006. First, what better setting for an enchanted forest than a stage in a wooded area of a Royal Park? Second, it was cast so exceedingly well. Third, the play's design was beautiful and appropriate to the production's tone (Edwardian costumes for the humans, raggedy street urchin/punk for the fairies.) The three female leads: Sirine Saba, Summer Strallen, and Sheridan Smith - try saying those three times fast! - were excellent, adroit at physical comedy and pathos alike. A really lovely theatre experience, but then what isn't there to like about sipping Pimm's cups under a twilight sky while watching mortals (and fairies) make fools of themselves?

Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell, starring Tom Conti
We primarily booked this to see Tom Conti perform on stage. And perform he does; while there are other cast members, this is essentially a one-man show. We didn't know who Jeffrey Bernard was going into the play, and we don't particularly care to know more about him after. Perhaps this would have resonated more with us if we had grown up with Bernard's writing. But seeing as this was basically two hours of Conti stumbling around as the perpetually vodka-soaked Bernard, and seeing as my husband and I lack the British fascination with people in possession of engorged livers, this fell flat on its face for us long before Conti took the first of many drunken pratfalls. Under the Black Flag will probably be the worst theatre experience of the 21st century for me and Jeffrey Bernard came nowhere near that nadir - but it certainly wasn't a high point, either.

Love's Labour's Lost, performed by Shakespeare Theater Company of Washington D.C. at the RSC
The RSC's Complete Works Festival is not limited to performances by the RSC; they invited companies from all over the world to perform their own interpretations. The Shakespeare Theater Company took on Love's Labour's Lost and gave it a 1960s spin, turning the princes seeking knowledge into Beatlesque rock stars seeking enlightment, and turning the Kingdom of Navarre into an Indian ashram. It worked amazingly well. This was a fun, bright, bold production, from the mod outfits to the Indian influenced set. When the princes delivered sonnets to their lady loves, they were in the form of rock songs and ballads instead of declaimed poetry, bringing the scene alive. The performances were terrific, especially Hank Stratton's Berowne and Amir Arison's King Ferdinand. For the women, Sabrina LeBeauf especially stood out among the Princess's ladies. She hasn't aged one day since The Cosby Show - and this was in the Swan Theatre, where we could see the actors up close. We loved this production for its energy and joie de vivre. (And for including the Frito-Lay bandito song, even if once more we found ourselves the only ones giggling at a US-centric joke. What can I saw, we're easy to please.)

The Taming of the Shrew at Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park
Sadly, magic didn't strike twice at the Open Air Theatre, despite this production having most of the same cast as A Midsummer's Night Dream. Perhaps if we had seen this production first, we would have liked it more - but the earlier play set very high expectations. Sirine Saba, who played such an elegant, imperious Titiana in Midsummer, was here merely grating and annoying. Yes, Katherina is a shrew, but we're still supposed to have empathy for her. Same for John Hodgkinson's Petruchio. He came off as a mean, cruel misogynist. One wished that the two would get lost and freeze to death on the way to Petruchio's home. The ending scene, where Kate docilely submits to Petruchio, felt creepy and disturbing, with zero sexual chemistry. And Sheridan Smith, so fabulous as Hermia, was a simpering and cloying Bianca. I can only blame the director, as the cast that gelled to perfection in Midsummer was sodden and unpalatable in this production. Not even the Pimm's cups could make me like like this version of Shrew.

Sunday in the Park with George, music & lyrics by Stephen Sondheim
Another musical using video projection onto blank walls in lieu of stage sets (see: Woman in White). But unlike the earlier production, in which the projection WAS the raison d'etre for the show (or at least it felt that way), here the projection is used to highlight, emphasize and make witty asides. It helped to create an incredibly satisfying whole, instead of overwhelming all else. Of course, I vastly prefer Sondheim to Lloyd Webber so I may be biased...

King John, performed in repertory by the Royal Shakespeare Company
One of the best aspects of the RSC's Complete Works Festival is seeing Shakespeare plays that are rarely mentioned, much less performed. One of Will's early efforts, King John examines the monarch mostly known for being a thumb-sucking cowardly lion in Disney's version of Robin Hood. Oh, and for signing the Magna Carta, of course.

In this production, Richard McCabe as the titular king did seem to have drawn some inspiration from Disney; his John was a fractious, spoiled tyrant, at once imperious yet fearful. But for all that, it was a performance that demands your attention. While John was never a figure of admiration, you understood his motivations and empathized when his machinations involving his usurped nephew Arthur go awry. Tamsin Greig, whom I've only seen play comedic roles on television, was an intense, forbidding Constance, mourning her son and vowing revenge with an intensity that left goosebumps. And Joseph Millson stole the stage whenever he was on it as the Bastard. An involving production, one that I enjoyed very much.

Much Ado About Nothing, performed in repertory by the Royal Shakespeare Company
The last Shakespeare production of the year for us, and what a high note to end on! This production sparkled from start to finish. Tamsin Greig and Joseph Millson played Beatrice and Benedick, set against the backdrop of 1950s Cuba. One could feel the steamy summer Havana night despite it being mid-December London outside. The soldiers were government men, fresh from a rebel skirmish. Beatrice wore sharp-shouldered jackets and tight pencil skirts to match her tone and mood; the virginal Hero wore full skirts and bows in her ponytail. The music was salsa, the lighting moody and suggestive - a complete feast for the senses.

Greig and Millson sparked and sparkled; their chemistry was palpable. (I'd love to see them perform Kate and Petruchio...) The eavesdropping scenes, in which Benedick hears of Beatrice's supposed love and vice versa, were models of physical comedy. Millson got to pretend he was a bush, while Greig had an inspired routine with a Vespa scooter. Yet the drama was also there in full force. When Beatrice begs Benedick to kill Claudio, it is a cry from a vengeful, grieving heart.

I could have done without the over-the-top-and-way-into-the-heavens camp Dogberry, but overall this production hit very few jarring notes. And the end, reminding us that while all may be merry right now but that this life would soon be ending when Castro takes power, was food for thought.

The 39 Steps, based on the 1935 Hitchcock film
This was non-stop fun from start to finish. Four actors play over 100 roles as they re-enact the Hitchcock film, inventively using props to suggest a moving train, a chase over the moors, an escape through a back window from a crofter's cottage, and other film-only scenarios (or so one would have thought...) The acting was terrific, the mood and tone light, and it even snows inside the theatre. (Warning: if you are in the first three rows, as we were, you'll need to wash your hair when you get home.) Highly recommended, and still on in London!

And that draws a curtain over 2006. In 2007 we have Spamalot to look forward to (we saw it in New York, but with obstructed view seats - I'm looking forward to having a full view of stage) as well as, you guessed it, more Shakespeare (F. Murray Abraham in The Merchant of Venice and Ian McKellen in King Lear among the tickets).

Semi-Annual Theatre Review: Part Two

Starting where I left off, waaaaay back in August (one of my goals for 2007 is to update this blog more often. Note I said "goal," not "resolution" as I never manage to keep a resolution but I'm more successful at reaching goals...knock wood.)

The balance of the plays seen in 2006:

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee, starring Kathleen Turner and Tom Irwin
A direct transfer from Broadway, with the cast intact, this production deservedly took the London theatre scene by storm and Kathleen Turner even won the Evening Standard Drama Awards for Best Actress. Since the Brits are rather snippy about the quality of American stage acting (although they do love the star power), this was more of a compliment than it may seem at first glance.

And Turner deserved the prize. She gave a gutsy, ballsy and affecting performance as Martha. But I think I admired Tom Irwin's portrayal of George even more. It's not an easy role, ol' George, and Irwin never took the easy road in his nuanced performance.

Great night out, even if you feel beat up at the end of it.

Embers, adapted by Christopher Hampton, starring Jeremy Irons
Judging by the critics' reviews, this was either a play you loved or you hated. We feel into the former camp - not all the way in, it's not the best thing we saw all year or anything like that - but the play stuck with me more than most we saw in 2006. Jeremy Irons, in what was basically a one-man show (although there were two other cast members), played a former Austro-Hungarian general who awaits the return of his once best friend on the eve of World War II. Based on the novel by Sandor Marai, the play elegantly touched on themes of loss and betrayal - of friendship, of love, of country, of personal identity. Irons was wonderful, as one would expect, but Patrick Malahide really impressed. The second act was pretty much a monologue delivered by Irons, meaning that Malahide had to sit, wordless, and listen. If acting is truly reacting, then Malahide stole the stage.

Julius Caesar, performed in repetory by the Royal Shakespeare Company.
This was the first of our many Stratford-Upon-Avon visits to see the RSC during their Complete Works Festival. Every play by William Shakespeare, performed over the course of a year, by theatre companies from all over the world (and quite a few performed by the RSC, of course). It was also our least favorite of the productions. John Light was just too, well, light as Brutus - in his toga, he looked like a young Harry Hamlin in Clash of the Titans, and his performance never lifted me past that observation. I liked his Caliban in The Tempest, but here he played Brutus straight and earnest, with little complexity. I did like the spare, minimal design of the play, all red leather, white togas and red blood.

Antony and Cleopatra, performed in repetory by the Royal Shakespeare Company.
Patrick Stewart and Harriet Walter played the titular roles, and a vastly entertaining evening was had by all. The play was performed in the Swan Theatre, which is a small, almost theatre in the round type space. The actors are so close you can see the sweat on the brow and the creases in the makeup. This makes for an intimate space for what is, at times, an epic play, but it allowed the production to emphasize the very personal and human aspects of the mythic Antony and Cleo. You believed these two were in lusty, crazy love and why it blinded them to the tragic ending to come.

Hayfever, written by Noel Coward, starring Dame Judi Dench
Noel Coward. Judi Dench. Playing a West End luvvy whose retirement to the country is an abysmal failure. Add two bored adult children looking for love and/or amusement, a scholarly husband who is studying the habits of the common flapper (that's Roaring Twenties flapper, not some obscure British fauna), and three bemused houseguests. Mix together and fun ensues. Or at least that's the plan. Until I went through my 2006 datebook, this didn't register on my memory. So while I don't remember this being painful, I also don't remember anything else about it. A souffle, then, easy digested, easily forgotten. Sorry, Dame Judi.

The Tempest, performed in repetory by the Royal Shakespeare Company
More Patrick Stewart, this time in the role of Prospero.

One of the first Shakespeare plays I saw on the legitimate stage was The Tempest at the Old Globe Theater in San Diego. The Old Globe production was old school Tempest: the island, a tropical paradise; Ariel, pretty and sparkling; Miranda, pretty but rather dim; Caliban, a monstrous beast. It was a Tempest that emphasized the fantasy and wonder of the story (although I remember feeling very sorry for Prospero at the end).

This version of the The Tempest took place on an island much closer to the Artic Circle than to the Equator. Prospero's magic felt like it came from a place older than the Norse Gods, while Miranda dressed like a Scandinavian native maiden. This was a harsh Tempest, the setting forbidding and dangerous, the danger much more forboding. Ariel looked more like Nosferatu than Tinkerbell, while Caliban kept his human form, using body language and grunts to suggest his otherworldly blood. Against this backdrop, the stakes for the characters were higher, the need for Prospero and his brother to reconcile of utmost importance. Mariah Gale's Miranda actually seemed intelligent for most of the play, and Patrick Stewart made Prospero at once fearsome yet sympathetic. While in the earlier production I felt sad for Prospero at losing his daughter and his island, a decision which felt forced on him, here I rejoiced with him as he makes the choice to return to his kingdom. Truly a wonderful - and despite the absence of the traditional fairydust, a wondrous - experience.


Avenue Q by Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx
We laughed until we cried. I don't think you be of a certain age and have grown up on American television and not love this musical. Well, okay, some might not like it but we rolled in the aisles. Sadly, I think some of the more obscure references went over the Brits' heads (like the "commitment" spoof on how The Electric Company taught kids how to sound out words) but the five of us that were US expats laughed loud enough for all. This musical seems to have confounded the UK critics - it wasn't reviewed well - but I heard it was recently given an extension because word of mouth among younger theatergoers is so strong. When song titles include "It Sucks to Be Me," "If You Were Gay," "The Internet is for Porn" and "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" - sung by not!Muppets - how can it NOT have strong word of mouth?

Part Three to come soon!

On Accents

Back to the expat life thing:

As I was cruising the blogosphere, I caught sight of a post that defended Madonna's rather dodgy British accent as forgivable. After all, she lives in the UK. So it is only natural that her speech takes on a plummy tone. (This came from a non-expat blog, by the way.)

BZZT! Sorry. Thanks for playing, enjoy your parting gifts.

I don't know the whys and wherefores of Madge's shapeshifting vowels. (Yes, they call her Madge here. The name makes me picture Madonna soaking her fingers, pre-manicure, in a bowl of rather viscous green dishwashing liquid. Which just a) reveals my age and b) tells you I watched way too much daytime television as a child.)

Perhaps Madonna has a much better ear than me - she is a singer, after all, attuned (one hopes) to tones and lilts. But after more than two years here - almost three, with some extended stops back in the US that first year - my accent is just as SoCal as ever.

And I know Americans who have lived here for ten years, twenty years. They still sound like they could walk the streets of Anytown, USA and not get fawned over for speaking like someone on Masterpiece Theater.

It takes WORK to pick up a British accent.

Okay, maybe it would easier to broaden my A's if I were surrounded by no one but Brits and watched nothing but British telly. At home I speak with my American hubby and, I must confess, we watch mostly US series. And at work I speak with my American bosses as well as my British staff.

But still. WORK. In my opinion. Especially because British regional differences are far more pronounced than those in America, and it would be hard to pick up even a "BBC English" accent as the telly and the streets outside are filled with numerous ways of pronouncing words.

I do slip into a British inflection rather easily - my voice goes down, instead of up, when asking a question these days. I've added "quite" and "rather" to my speech patterns. And I will admit to saying "to-MAH-to" and "IN-a-vah-tive" instead of "to-MAY-to" and "IN-o-vay-tive." (I draw the line at al-u-MIN-i-mun, however. It's a-LOO-mi-num. 'Nuff said.)

But an accent? Bahth instead of bath on a regular basis? Nope. Ain't happening. And it makes my husband and friends crack up whenever I try, I fail so miserably.

I know one or two American expats who slip into a British accent. Unfortunately, we tend to think of them as rather, well, pretentious and affected.

(Of course, if you are an American expat who has a British accent, I'm not talking about YOU ;-))

*tap tap* Is this thing still on?

*blows dust off the blog*

Sorry for disappearing like that. Y'know how it is...work, husband, business trips, silly little writing contests that consume all waking hours and then some, until you're nothing but a zombie bathed in the eerie light of your laptop, pushing "refresh" until your index finger bleeds and gnashing your teeth or wailing with joy depending on what the screen deigns to show you...

No? The last bit doesn't sound familiar? Then you, my friend, were wise enough to stay away from the time suckage vortex known as Avon FanLit.

Here's how it worked: You were given a premise, and then had about 1500 words to put your spin on it. Then you threw it into the internet ocean and watched whether it sunk or swam, as the other participants rated it from 0 (bad) to 5 (excellent). They could also leave comments, although the comments were signed and so it became de rigeur to leave only positive feedback. It really didn't matter if you had writing talent or not. The waters were shark infested. Some got their jollies by leaving strings of 0's wherever they went, and woe betide the author whose chapter was in the reading rotation at the time.

And the contest even had voting controversy! No, no hanging chads and Supreme Court decisions, but it appears there were sock puppets and shifty accounting practices and user fraud. Some participants walked off with head held high (or were booted off) once it became clear their questions wouldn't be answered to their satisfaction.

I wasn't one of them. No, aside from a week where a business trip kicked my butt and I had zero free time, I participated.

It was the instant feedback. It's like a drug. I became a score junkie, even hustling my poor friends and family for "just one more five-star rating. Then I'll quit. Honest." When I finalled, I even turned to my work colleagues. Never mind that the Christmas party is coming up and I just gave them all the fodder they need for drunken teasing.

But the contest is over. I'm free. Free, I say! My brain finally belongs to me again, not to some marketing department deep in the bowels of HarperCollins (a Rupert Murdoch company, by the way...yes, it all comes together now. Not just content to rule the British newspaper and US broadcasting worlds, now he turns his thoughts of world domination to...romance writers. Oh, the humanity!)

(Um, Mr. Murdoch, you know I'm just kidding, right? Right?)

Seriously, I did learn some important things from FanLit. And since this is my expat journal, the one thing I learned that pertains to my expat experience is:

I miss being in a community of writers.

It's not like the UK isn't a literary place. In fact, as the UK is the country that has given us the Orange Prize and the Man Booker Prize, not to mention that more books are published here than in the US despite the huge difference in population sizes, the UK could be called a very literary place indeed.

Especially compared to LA, where the moving picture is king, and screenwriters are at the bottom of the pile (ever hear the joke about the actress who was so dumb, she slept with the writer to get a part?)

Although, LA has its literary tradition as well. Raymond Chandler. T.C. Boyle. Carolyn See. On the more popular side, Joseph Wambaugh and Michael Connolly (although he lives in Florida). Many more that I can't recall off the top of my head. Plus a terrific LA Times Festival of Books in April.

And UCLA Extension, which has a fabulous Creative Writing program. And which is where I met the members of the two critique groups to which I belonged when I lived in LA.

I'm sure there must be programs for writers in London. But I write fluffy, contemporary, female-focused, not-so-much-literary-as-populist stuff. In other words, the kind of fiction that gets you a look down the nose and a chin in the air from most other writers. And since Britain is, in my opinion, a culture where labels tend to be stuck on gleefully with prejudice aforethought, it's not a part of myself that I readily put out for public consumption (pimping my finalist entry to my officemates notwithstanding - hey, there were real prizes involved!)

I do belong to an online British group which is fabboo - although they also struggle with the more literary (read: pretentious & small minded) writers looking down on their genre.

But I miss the physical company of other writers. And part of my fascination - and mental struggle - with the Avon FanLit process is that while the instant feedback was fun (if a bit co-dependent-making), I wanted to have coffee with each and every one of the many writers on that site whose writing I adored. Pick their brains. Plan plot strategy. Commiserate over stubborn characters.

The internet is a wondrous tool, but it doesn't compensate for eye contact and verbal tone.

Semi-Annual Theatre Review: Part One

*blows dust off the theatre review notebook*

Sorry for being late with the theatre round-up. The good news is that we've taken beaucoup advantage of living (almost) in the West End. The bad news is that my memory may be a bit rusty (although not when in comes to Under a Black Flag. No, you, my friend, will always be a painful neuron path).

So, since the last roundup, waaaaay back in December, we've seen:

Great Expectations, based on Charles Dickens's novel, Royal Shakespeare Company, Stratford-Upon-Avon
A large ensemble cast and some imaginative, if bare bones, staging. I was very impressed at how they managed to stay at once faithful yet obviously abridge much of Dickens's words to make the story fit into three hours. Unfortunately, it was freezing cold in Stratford and my husband had a bad head cold, and it's the latter two items I remember the best about this trip. Still, Stratford is very pretty at Christmas time, with lots of festive lights everywhere.

A Christmas Carol, starring Patrick Stewart (and only Patrick Stewart)
When the late and not in the least lamented Ducktastic closed early, it left room for a last minute addition of Patrick Stewart's tour-de-force one-man reenactment of A Christmas Carol. I saw Stewart perform this over ten years ago in Los Angeles, and it's still an amazing night of theater. This was our Christmas Eve present to ourselves, and it put us in just the right festive mood. So while between this and Great Expectations it was a very Dickens Christmas, really, what other author is as appropriate for celebrating in England?

Once in a Lifetime, by Moss Hart & George S. Kaufman, at the National Theatre
What better way to start a new year in London than by watching a Hart & Kaufman play about my old home town? The tale of a naif in Hollywood may be an old chestnut now, but some film industry stereotypes, it seems, are just as true today as they were then. The Hollywood sets and costumes stunned with their Art Deco gorgeousness. However, I remember being vaguely bored with the production.

Resurrection Blues by Arthur Miller, directed by Robert Altman, at the Old Vic
The critics' knives came out for this production, although the cackling glee in most of the reviews make me wonder if the play was reviewed on its own merits or if it was merely an excuse to indulge in schadenfreude. Kevin Spacey is not having a well received stint as the Artistic Director at the Old Vic, although I, if not the British press, give him full props for staging this play. Yes, it's not Arthur Miller's shining hour. But it's still Arthur freaking Miller! And directed by Robert freaking Altman! And the cast wasn't too shabby either: Maximilian Schell, Matthew Modine, James Fox. Jane Adams, one of my favorite actresses of all time, was brilliant. And Neve Campbell, although still channeling Julia Salinger, didn't disgrace herself. No, it wasn't a great play. But I found it interesting, and thought-provoking, and overall far better than the poisoned pens made it out to be.

Billy Elliot, score by Elton John
One of the hottest tickets in London when it opened, and still selling strongly. Although based on a non-musical film, this is old-fashioned musical theatre, with a cast of dozens and songs ranging from rock n' roll to ballads to union chants. And since it is about a young boy who discovers he is a gifted dancer, there's flashy choreography as well. The musical follows the film's story pretty closely, although a ghostly mother is added for maximum heart tugging, and an amazing pas de deux between the boy Billy and his grown-up self really hits home the theme of the play. I enjoyed Billy Elliot, but I wasn't bowled over. I expected something almost transcendent from the hype, but it was just a nice solid piece of musical theatre, nothing more, nothing less.

The Woman in White, Andrew Lloyd Webber, composer
When The Woman in White was ending its run, they put £20 tickets on sale. I snatched up two of them. I was curious about the show, as I love Victorian Gothic novels. However, my husband is far from an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan (can't get him to see Evita, no matter how spectacular the reviews) so I knew seeing it at full price was not an option. He grudgingly agreed to accompany me at bargain prices.

I should listen more often to my husband.

The Woman in White was our least favorite theatre outing until recently supplanted by good ol' Under a Black Flag. The music was ALW circa Phantom of the Opera. Melodic, but overly familiar yet not memorable. The story annoyed me: the wussy heroine gets her man, while the gutsy heroine gets to be the spinster aunt. Perhaps that made the 19th century readers of Wilkie Collins' book, upon which this is based, feel that all was as it should be in the world. However, my 21st century self felt cheated and angry on the gutsy heroine's behalf.

The most amazing aspect of this production was the scenic design: computer-generated 3D projection on moving walls created grand county homes, sweeping countryside vistas, London streets and The Lady in White's version of the ALW trademark dropping chandelier/crashing helicopter: a train rushing right at the audience.

But a big pah! on the wussy heroine and hero. With a side of sweeping scorn.

A Man For All Seasons starring Martin Shaw
I loved this production of Robert Bolt's play. Martin Shaw played an intelligent, principled and highly likeable Thomas More, who refuses to condone Henry VIII's divorce of Catherine of Aragon and ultimately dies for it. An easy to digest history lesson, with stirring performances. One of my favorite plays of 2006 (so far).

Honour, starring Diana Rigg, Natasha McElhone and Martin Jarvis
The story is familiar: A couple, married for over thirty years, finds their marriage in turmoil when the man falls for a hottie young enough to be his daughter. But the acting set this apart. Diana Rigg was amazing as the titular character, Honour, who long ago gave her promising career as a poet to be a wife to Martin Jarvis's academic pundit. Natasha McElhone, as the gorgeous young journalist who bags Jarvis as both an interview subject and as a lover, was left standing in Rigg's acting dust, badly outclassed.

Why I Won't Be Discussing Politics Here

This isn't a political blog.

This is a blog for me. I appreciate those of you who wander by, and those of you I personally know and love and who pull a chair to kibitz, but I'm really writing this as a chronicle of my time living outside the comfortable environs of SoCal, USA.

But sometimes world events happen in your backyard. Of course, living in LA, we got several nationally newsworthy events a year: Malibu mudslides, brushfires, floods, the occasional riot, the occasional major earthquake, OJ Simpson (that one was really in my backyard. For years after, I'd walk a few blocks up the street and macabre tourists would be posing for photos in front of Nicole's former condo).

However, in the last thirteen months, London has had its share of world events. The last few days do not compare to 7/7, of course; there was no loss of life, just loss of carry-on items. Material possessions can be replaced. Human beings cannot. (Although I am selfishly thankful that my trip to the States was three weeks ago and not last week. And the thought of flying eleven hours to LA without my contact lens solution, spray cleanser for my glasses, hand lotion, stress points gel, moisturizer and facial spray - not to mention three liters of water - is a bit daunting. But I am strong! I will survive! I will be flaky, parched and blind, but alive!)

It was fairly quiet in the office. The only concession to ten planes narrowly escaping an explosive end was that the office TVs were all on and tuned to Sky News, CNN or the Beeb. That stiff upper lip was ever-present. We didn't even talk about it that much, except to catch up on any colleagues caught in the melee.

But since the plane plot was made public, I'm a bit more excitable. Full of nervous energy. The pressures of modern life in general, or residue from the news? Who knows.

Anayway, back to the opening statement. This isn't a political blog, although sometimes it may slip here and there. It's just...human, one hopes...to be interested in the world and to have strong opinions on the running of such.

But.

I saw a wake-up call on how others can twist blogs - even chatty, personal ones - to their own purposes, and wreak havoc with one stroke of the key.

I like reading other expat blogs, to see if we share the same reactions to living on this side of the Atlantic or how we may differ. When I find a blog I like, I add it to Bloglines.

So I don't know Helen. I don't even remember how I first found her blog. But I've been reading her posts for a few months now.

When the news first broke about the airplane plot and new security measures, Helen wrote this post.

It's pretty innocuous to me. She's not saying anything that I haven't seen many others say. And, above all, y'know, an opinion? She's entitled to one. She's even entitled to make it public on the internet.

A US political blogger, of whom I've never heard but who is apparently pretty popular, linked to Helen's post, in the process calling her a "sad moonbat" and basically painting Helen Commie Red and Un-American Cowardly Blue in the process.

Read the repercussions of Helen having an opinion here.

She got death threats, people.
Threats against her puppy.
Her reproductive rights called into question.

All for saying that, gee, I'm a little sad at the shape of the world today. And because some female political commentator, who doesn't know Helen and who doesn't read her blog, decided to twist Helen's words anyway to suit her own political agenda. Of the two people involved, I certainly know which one I'd characterize as "sad" - and it ain't Helen.

You can disagree with someone's opinion - feel more than welcome to disagree with mine - but let's leave the (highly illegal) death threats at the door, 'kay?

I hope Helen reported the threats to the FBI and the sender's ISP...

You Know You've Been Out of the US Too Long When...

I just returned from a week in the States, in Florida and Georgia to be precise. I had an amazing time in both places. But Atlanta was special because I hung out with truly extraordinary, wise and luminous women at the Romance Writers of America National Conference. I didn't realize how much I missed girl talk until I stayed up until the wee hours eating junk food and drinking copious amounts of alcohol, reveling in female camaraderie.

The women I met, goddesses all, fed an hungry place in my soul I didn't know existed. I'm so much the richer for knowing them.

And yeah, really inspirational writing stuff ensued, but this is my expat blog. And there were several incidents that made me realize that living in the UK has rubbed off on me.

I've always been told by Brits that Americans are friendly. They say this as one would say "Your child is lovely" to a mother whose child has rather unfortunate ears and a hooked nose. In other words, "friendly" is anything but a compliment. American-style friendliness is off-putting and uncomfortable to those who habitually ignore other humans even when pressed up against them on a train.

I know.

Because I was off-put and uncomfortable when strangers spoke to me. My parents and I breakfasted at a hotel coffee shop one morning, and we started to discuss friends of theirs who live in Michigan. Or maybe it was Nebraska. Anyway, a very nice couple at the table next to us leaned over and said, "Where do they live? We're from there!"

My parents, who I've always thought of as being on the reserved side, jumped right into a conversation that lasted at least fifteen minutes.

I was appalled. And then I was even more appalled that I was appalled. But I was really taken aback at strangers eavesdropping and then interjecting themselves into our conversation - even though I used to do the same thing as a matter of course when I lived in the States.

The next day, I was shopping at Macy's (the dollar to the pound, man. I couldn't NOT shop. It was like getting clothes for free) and a very lovely woman rummaging through the sales rack next to me held up a blouse and said, "This would be cute on you."

I freaked. Who is this person and why is she speaking to me?! I smiled politely and backed away. Poor woman probably thought I was deranged and/or rude. But I honestly forgot how to respond to her.

And that's when I knew: I've been out of the States far too long.

Here are some other clues I discovered:

1) You tell your friend to meet you by the lift- I mean, elevator
2) You automatically eat with a fork in your left hand and a knife in your right, and you never put down either utensil.
3) You try to get in the driver's seat although you're just the car passenger
4) Restaurant serving sizes look REALLY huge, and you can only finish a third of your plate
5) Cold beer - that's just WRONG
6) You don't even realize you just asked "Where's the loo?" until your parents give you a strange look
7) No smoke in the bar - that's just WRONG (but very, very nice)
8) You say "to-mah-to" without meaning to sound pretentious
9) When did they change the nickel?!?!? And the ten dollar bill?!?!? I'm confused!
10) You say "cheers" instead of thank you
11) You giggle at how cheap petrol- I mean, gas, is
12) You tell your friend you're getting in the queue- I mean, line
13) You look the wrong way when crossing the street
14) You grumble at having to tip
15) You don't take A/C for granted, and thank your lucky stars each day for the miracle of cold air
16) You constantly come up short at the cash register, because you forget sales tax isn't already included in the price

Luckily, I got my "speaking to strangers" legs back before I left the US - just in time to return to "Don't speak unless spoken to" Britain.

Under A Black Flag - or what NOT to watch on the London stage

It's time for a midyear theatre recap, but Under a Black Flag deserves a special entry all its own. It's the least I can do for something that sucked three hours of my life bone dry.

I admit it. It was my fault. I picked the play. I was on a pirate high after giggling my way through Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (okay, it's not a great movie. But it's FUN. Fun is good.) and wanted more buckle in my swash.

This was not the play to feed my pirate fancy. If anything, this play should quelch any liking for pirates dead, dead, dead.

Under a Black Flag is a prequel to Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. If there was ever an argument that copyright should be granted to the author/author's estate in perpetuity instead of the current lifetime plus 70 years, this is it. Poor Robbie, rolling in his grave at the terrible abuse his characters were put through.

Here, Long John Silver is imagined as the son of a charlatan street preacher who flaunts Cromwell's laws. When Cromwell himself witnesses the con artist Silver claiming he saved the Lord Protector's life (because Cromwell obviously had nothing better to do than walk the streets of London looking for old men who drop trou - yes, full frontal male nudity opened the play), he sentences Silver to impressment in His Lord Protector's Navy.

When pirates board the ship (as pirates do), Silver eagerly volunteers to take up the black flag. But when he claims to be a saint (!), he freaks out the Evil Pirate Captain who turns him into a slave instead.

When they make port on the pirate island of Rabat, Silver and his fellow slave, who is African, are forced to perform Hamlet (!) in front of potential buyers (because who wants slave physical labor when you can have slave thespians...) Only, oops! the pirates gave Silver and his friend swords that work, and they fight their way to freedom, with Silver accidentally running through his best friend (who had too much stage fright to perform with them and so was hiding in a really bad place. See, acting saves your life!)

Then someone takes the Sultan of Morocco's daughter hostage in the melee and Silver saves her life and the Sultan pleads for Silver's return. Only the Evil Pirate Captain is still freaked out by Silver claiming to be a saint and tries to kill him. But the other pirates, even more freaked out, demand that he and his thespian friend (now called Hamlet) get to live, and off they go to the Pirate parliament.

Oddly enough, for a place that has a parliament, the pirates are not very democratic - until Silver proposes an equal share in all the booty. This doesn't go down very well with Evil Pirate Captain, who is used to getting, well, the captain's share. The men vote to make Silver their captain (well, I'm assuming they did. The play was unintelligible in many spots to my still American ears). They then name him "Long" after the length of his penis (which we don't get to see, but Hamlet vouches for. Hmmm.)

After the intermission, the play became truly interminable. Silver now has a lovely wavy wig to cover the crew cut he had in the first half, and some lovely iridescent green billowy pantaloons. He's sleeping with Isabella, who is Evil Pirate Captain's niece/lover/object of obsession, but he really yearns after the Sultan's daughter. Evil Pirate Captain, looking somewhat the worse the wear, is angry that Isabella runs around with Silver, and Isabella is angry that Silver moons over the Sultan's daughter. Evil Pirate Captain and Isabella plot to capture Silver, but Isabella is actually plotting to kill Evil Pirate Captain. Evil Pirate Captain is successful, Isabella less so. She gets carved up off stage for her betrayal (lots of crimson splatters all over Evil Pirate Captain, and a knive he lovingly fondles.) Evil Pirate Captain then proceeds to torture Hamlet, aided by a comedy duo who sing songs about being bastards. Hamlet gets carved up off stage. Silver, after being strung up ala the crucifixion and ranting to his father/Father about being a saint (a plot point dropped during the second half until now), gets his finger sliced off on stage, and the ring meant for the daughter he so loves taken away.

Meanwhile, back in England, the captain of the ship upon which Silver was impressed finally returns. Silver let him live, but killed his son, and set the captain afloat with his dead son's body for company. In case you miss how the captain survived his first weeks at sea, he will refer to eating his son. Many times. Subtlety and subtext are far from this play's strength. The pissed off captain, having threatened Silver at the time with the death of Silver's wife and daughter, is now good to go on the threat. He carves up Silver's wife off stage, but the daughter runs away to look for dear old pa. Now the captain wants to go after Silver himself. Cromwell says, sure, why not, and throws him a toady to supposedly keep him in check.

Silver has gone a little mad since his torture and is followed around by the ghost of Hamlet (I repeat. Subtlety is NOT a hallmark of this product). A young, stroppy cabin boy shows up - why, it's Silver's daughter Anne! She keeps her true identity a secret, and no one questions her because she exudes sullen teenage 'tude all too well. Silver is still captain - because no one else wants the job, now there's a surprise - and the ship is becalmed. The ghost of Hamlet tells him that the next person to call Silver friend is the Jonah and needs to be thrown overboard. Funny enough, that might be the new cabin boy - but another pirate steps in and utters the fatal words first. Bye bye pirate. Silver also goes overboard, carrying a sack of potatoes claiming it is gold. The ship starts to move. There is nothing ironic or even logical about this scene, except that ghostly Hamlet has either a warped sense of humor or he really sucks at this supernatural message from beyond thing.

Silver tries to bury his sack his potatoes before hanging himself. The Sultan's daughter stops him (WHY? OH WHY? I'D BE OUT OF THE THEATRE FORTY MINUTES EARLY IF YOU WOULD JUST LET HIM DIE!) because apparently the Sultan doesn't mind his unveiled daughter talking to strange men in the garden. Wow! One smile from the Sultan's daughter and a couple of "Allah is Great"s and Silver has the will to live again! Curse you, Sultan's daughter!

Silver and his men decide to take the fight to Evil Pirate Captain, because, y'know, eventually you have to fight the man who enslaved you, killed your friend, killed your lover, cut off your finger and stole your ring. Eventually. About two and half hours after it was made painfully obvious that Evil Pirate Captain is a very bad guy (if all the killing & pillaging wasn't a clue, the actor playing him aped Alan Rickman in Die Hard), Evil Pirate Captain is killed. Hamlet is avenged (he was one mouthy ghost. Wonder why the friend who Silver killed waaaaay back before the intermission never haunted him? Oh well, no use applying logic to this story) and he and the Angel of Death improvise some scat as they sashay off stage.

Silver claims that whoever finds his ring (and finger, one supposes) will be his partner and split the booty 50/50 with him. Hey! What ever happened to equal share for equal pirates, democracy pirate boy?! Anyhoo, stroppy cabin boy finds it. Hey, it was her ring originally. But Silver won't let stroppy cabin boy keep it. He needs it for another purpose.

Which is, of course, to convert to Islam and take the Sultan's daughter as his wife. Okay, Silver spends 3/4 of the play declaiming about his love for his daughter and how he wears the ring as a reminder of her, only to put it on the finger of the first Sultan's daughter he marries? What, he couldn't find another ring in the booty - Evil Pirate Captain wore plenty of them - or use some of it to buy a new one? And she didn't mind getting some hand-me-down? Whatever.

Alas! Married life is not meant to be. Pissed off English captain finds Silver's boat. They fight, Silver surrenders. Pissed off English captain wants to kill Silver. Toady protests that the pirates are unarmed and to kill them would be, well, unsporting. Pissed off English captain kills toady. Toady, who up to now has had maybe fifteen lines - most of them, "Yes sir" to Cromwell - then gets a soliliquy about violence begatting violence, etc. etc. etc. A soliliquy. Like, five minutes of stage time for a minor character. Which he uses to beat us over the head with the Important Theme.

Pissed off English captain is about to kill Silver. Oh no! Storm comes up. Sultan's daughter washes overboard. Silver goes after her. Stroppy cabin boy survives the storm, picks up pissed off English captain AND her father (now missing a leg, of course, so he can have a peg leg in Treasure Island). Because no good deed goes unpunished, pissed off English captain kills stroppy cabin boy just after she reveals herself to her father. Silver then moans to the heavens. My husband and I exit.

Three HOURS this took. There were some nice bits of staging; the play made full use of being performed in the Globe, with its standing room of audience members at the foot of the stage. Some of the costumes were nice. And, um, that's about it.

Overall, this was one tonal mismash, with broad humor next to Grand Guignal horror. Oh, and songs. Yes, there are musical interludes. Not very memorable tunes, but singing does ensue. The playwright strove for Shakespearean sonorance in his speeches, but alas! His pen was more of the sort Master Thespian enjoyed. The actors did their best, but the material defeated them every time. They didn't have characters, just disjointed moments that when added up made no sense.

Stay away. Stay far away from this benighted play unless ye, too, want to suffer the curse of the numb bum and the hurting brain.

Summer evenings, had me a blast...

*sigh* The Tower of London Music Festival is now over. No more evenings sitting outside under a slowly darkening sky, sipping Pimms and listening to great music - in a moat. Well, a former moat. The water was drained in 1843 by order of the Duke of Wellington, or so we were told by the Beefeater welcoming us to the first concert we attended. He added that the reason grass grows so well in the moat is because it doubled as a sewage system for the City of London. Those must have been some fragrant summers back in the day...

But still. How often do you go to a concert in a moat? Next to a 900 year old castle? And men in skirts (okay, not really, but really cool uniforms with peplums) introduce the bands?

We saw three of the acts in what was a two-week long event: Pink Martini, Madeleine Peyroux and Jamie Cullen. Pink Martini (and if you don't know who they are, get thyself to Amazon or iTunes immediately) was a fiesta of good vibes and better dancing; I commented to my husband that we went to an open air party and a Pink Martini concert broke out. There were people having a very good time, filling up the grassy aisles and salsa-ing and swinging to the music. No one told them to sit down and go back to their seats. By the last song, a fabulous rendition of "Brazil" that built and built into a joyous crescendo, everyone was on their feet and a conga line spontaneously formed.

It was muy cool.

When we arrived for Madeleine Peyroux, they traded our back of the audience tickets for the front section. I'm sorry Madeleine didn't sell out but I am very grateful we got to see her up close. This was a more intimate concert, all smokey jazz vocals with a sideorder of blues and bluegrass. We relaxed in our comfortable directors' chairs and let the music wash over us.

Jamie Cullen did sell out, as one would expect from a London boy returning home after a year touring other continents. We were in the back, but Jamie brought three large video screens and two handheld camera operators so while actual Jamie was a tiny figure, virtual Jamie was easy to see. Part young Harry Connick Jr., part young Billy Joel, part all himself, he was thoroughly winning. He brought on a Brazilian street band as a coda to "London Skies" which went on a bit too long considering the time limit (the Tower concerts had to finish at 10:30 sharp, which made them perfect for those who are no longer as young as they think they are, like me). But he won my heart completely with his final song, a lovely piano and voice version of "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans." Since I do indeed know what that means, I very much appreciated the sentiment (and his nod to Louis Armstrong).

Seriously. Music in a moat. It's one of the things that make me appreciate London so much. And the Tower is far from the only place to hear music or see theatre under the sky (I would say stars, but as it is still light until well past 9:00 p.m., that's not strictly true). There's Holland Park, Regent's Park and Kenwood House in Hampstead, all of which we will be visiting before the summer is over. There's free opera on big screens in Trafalgar Sqaure. There's the Globe, open to the elements. When it is sunny and warm (which luckily it has been), there's nothing more wonderful.

So, while I'm still a little homesick, we're definitely trying to make the most of the summer. After all, there are Pimm cups to be drunk.

So maybe it's not Mercury's fault...

So after I whinged and whined in the last post:

1) My husband has two job interviews tomorrow
2) A British friend from out of the past called and we're having lunch on Wednesday
3) The sun came out and it's hot, but not beastily so
4) I managed to walk past the "70% off!!!" signs on Oxford Street without breaking stride

It must be because Mercury is in retrograde...

Last night, as we came home from the theatre, loud, explosive but very familiar noises assaulted our ears. The sky above Holland Park Avenue lit up with bursts of red, white and blue light. We could see the fireworks' reflection in the windows of the townhouses opposite our flat, but we couldn't see the actual pyrotechnics.

I guessed that the fireworks came from the street behind us, too low to see over the roofs from our street, but perhaps visible from our back bedroom. I ran upstairs, searched frantically for the key that opened the door to the small balcony off the bedroom, discovered that the key was not on top of the bookcase as I had carefully left it but was downstairs on the keyring o'spares, and managed to step outside in bare feet on the unswept, unkempt balcony just long enough to see, through a small gap in the adjoining rooftops, about two minutes of fireworks.

I'm not sure who put on the display, but it was very much appreciated. I noticed the couple next door, also American expats, were on their roof terrace, wrapped in each other's arms, watching as well. Happy (belated) Fourth of July!

Mercury went into retrograde yesterday. While I am not a huge believer in astrology, I am enough of a Gemini to want to keep my options open. And I've certainly started to feel out of sorts and wrong side front the past few days.

I'm...homesick. There. I admitted it. Oh, I still love living here and if I were told to move home tomorrow I would be devastated to leave but...I'm homesick.

I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss having a network. I miss feeling plugged in. I miss knowing all the unspoken, unwritten cultural "rules."

Some of this comes from moving to a new place, and I would feel the same if I had just moved to a new town in the US. I keep reminding myself that it takes time to make friends, it takes time to put down roots. But while we had a very promising start to our social life here, our favorite people have moved away (another by-product of living an international life - people & their jobs tend to be transitory) and replacements have been hard to come by.

Part of it is the weather. We're having a heatwave. A muggy, sticky, non-air conditioned heatwave. According to the Evening Standard newspaper, the heat index on the Central Line (my commute) is 98 degrees Fahrenheit. It's not much better in our flat, which, as fabulous as it is (great location, lots of space) has zero cross ventilation. And two floors. Above a garage. And heat rises.

I'm consoling myself by going shopping. The sales are on! Unlike US stores, which have permanent markdown racks, most London stores only put their wares on sale twice a year: January and July. But...and I never thought I'd ever say this...it IS possible to have too much stuff. It just is. And I hate feeling like I need to be out shopping because now is the time for a bargain. I love to shop. I'm a great shopper. I'm great at spotting bargains. But when sale time comes only twice a year and EVERYONE has bargains and it's buy now or never get your bargain again it's just...draining and ennervating. I'm not explaining it well and I know I sound like a spoiled prig because, after all, I can afford my shopping habit but...sometimes the hole is in your soul, not in your closet, and no amount of cutprice fashion is going to make you feel better.

And my husband is out of sorts because his job search is dragging on and he's had to deal more than one person ever should with the veddy British passive aggressive recruiters, whose way of dealing with rejection is just not to return phone calls. Look, pick up the phone and tell him he didn't get the job, m'kay? Don't just leave him sitting by the phone, wondering what happened. Especially when you all but promised him the job when you called to set up the interview.

Directness. I think I miss that most of all.

Mercury comes out of retrograde on the 29th. I can't wait...!

Overheard on the Tube (or Folks, Let's Try This Only At Home)

So, like, I was on the Tube this afternoon, y'know? And there were these, like, three American college girls sitting opposite me? And they were all, like, "Dude, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"

"I don't know, what do you think people do here?

"Like, are you gonna get hammered?"

"Like, I don't think people get hammered here on the Fourth."

"No way, people drink here."

"I'm gonna wear red, white and blue. With stars."

"I'm gonna wear my 'Everybody Loves An American Girl' t-shirt. My mom told me people here would like me because I don't like Bush."

I was, like, so off the train at that point.

I've been in London two years now. I'm slowly realizing that my reactions to conversations like the above are far more British than American. For one, you don't talk on the Tube. You just don't. In the beginning I thought it was anti-social. Now I recognize it for the sanity-saving measure that it is.

First, Tube trains are cramped. They are a Mini Cooper to the New York subway cars' Chevy Suburban. The less reminder that you are semi-hurtling through dark, dank, rat-infested tunnels in a sardine can packed with other grumpy humans, the better.

Second, London is a loud, noisy place. The streets are full of horns, sirens, loud motors and the occasional jack hammer. The Tube creaks, groans and clacks. Conversation is just another assault on the eardrums. We don't need it, thank you very much.

Third, I've come to the conclusion that the much vaunted British politeness is basically just leaving other people the hell alone. No one is going to interrupt you, or hinder you, or get in your way. In return, they don't want to be bothered, either. In America, if you strike up a conversation in a public place where others can hear you, others may very well join in the conversation. Or even start up a new conversation, stranger to stranger. No way, Jose, in the UK. You don't speak unless spoken to, and you don't speak in tones loud enough for others to hear in public (unless, of course, you want to be overheard. The flip slide of British politeness is passive aggressiveness). So in the UK, it's just the polite thing to stay quiet, or keep your voice down.

Therefore, the only people who talk on the Tube are either 1) drunk or 2) tourists. Well, or 3) passive aggressive.

I'm not really trying to rip on the college girls, although, like, y'know, people wonder why Americans have such a bad rep abroad? Exhibit A. Don't talk about Fourth of July like it's a national holiday outside of the US. And while the Brits are not all that sensitive about Fourth of July - it was over 200 years ago, after all, it's not like they lost World War II or anything important - it does seem the height of, well, neener-neenerism to want to rub the losers' faces in it.

Oh well. I did enjoy being in the company of the girls, so fresh faced and clean-scrubbed and slightly overfed in that American way. London girls that age look a bit hard to my eyes. Their style idols are the footballers' (i.e. Team England soccer players) WAGs (Wives And Girlfriends). Victoria Beckham is their style queen, all anoxeric jutting angles and bug-eyed sunglasses and George Hamilton Mystic Tan and very expensive clothing that looks cheap (in a $2 streetwalker sense, not Target chic sense). (Can you tell I'm not a Posh - or Coleen - fan?) You can identify a London girl by her exposed bra straps and ceramic ironed hair and flashy make-up. Not there's anything wrong with any of it. It's a look. But it was...homey...to be in the presence of girls who wore make-up to accentuate, not drown, their features; whose shirts came down over their waistbands; whose skin glowed from the sun, not from the tanning bed or the bottle.

Summertime (and the living is HOT)

I'm beginning to understand the English obsession with weather.

Polite conversation here centers on current meteorological conditions. Whereas in LA one might open with "How about them Dodgers?" or "Did you get caught in that SigAlert on the 405?," in London small talk consists of how bright the sky is or how grey the clouds.

It's taken me a while to adjust. Particularly as my usual small talk fallback in LA - "What a cute purse/pair of shoes/necklace/shirt!" - feels rather, well, taboo here. One just doesn't discuss the accessories of others. Perhaps it is a comment on how shallow, consumerist and focused on appearances my former hometown can be, where females (and not a few men) regularly bond over purchases from Bloomies. And truth to tell, life in London, free from the pressure to look like an ad layout for Anthropologie or J. Crew or Barney's New York, is quite refreshing. But I still felt conversationally hamstrung - until I got the hang of studying the BBC's weather webpage every morning. Now I have proper conversation topics and can get through the morning "how goes it"'s with ease.

And the current topic occupying our chat? It's HOT. Over 80 degrees Fahrenheit hot.

Wait! I hear you say. Aren't you from California? Southern California, to be precise? Isn't 80 degree weather, like, y'know, normal everyday temperature for you?

Well, yes and no. First, I lived and (for most of my adult life) worked on the Westside. Ocean breezes kept most summer days a temperate 75 or so. And on the days when the breezes came from the desert and baked the city into triple digits or more, you could always look forward to nightfall and the heat dissipating with the sunset. LA is arid, with low humidity, which means no moisture to trap the day's heat.

And LA is also a young city, built up primarily after World War II as the defense industry and the film community alike moved in to take advantage of said weather. Therefore, most buildings are familiar with the concept of air conditioning. Central air, even, not just those units that make walking underneath windows in New York City in summer such an adventure.

London, not so much on the air conditioning. The Tube - see last year's blog entries of talk about how Dante-ish the Tube gets in summer. Busses - why give them windows that open if you aren't going to use them? Stores - hit or miss, mostly miss. We joked this weekend that we wanted to move into our local M&S Simply Foods, simply because it had the strongest A/C we'd felt all weekend. Our flat - oh please. Let's be glad the heat works in winter and leave it at that.

It was gorgeous this past Saturday. The sky was deep blue, perfect and pure, not one cloud to mar it. The light was hard and bright. The leaves on the trees, past their chartreuse first growth and now a darker kelly green, threw jagged shadows on the sidewalks. We walked through all four Central London parks - Kensington, Hyde, Green and St James's - on our way to Convent Garden to grab lunch. The World Cup just started and the streets were deserted as people gathered at home or in dark pubs to match the England-Paraguay match. We could follow the game by the noises we heard as we walked by the various pubs. It felt odd to be in the West End on a beautiful summer day with few fellow pedestrians in sight, but it was lovely to almost have the city to ourselves. And Covent Garden itself was as crowded as ever.

We lived mostly outside this weekend, sticking to shade and following the breeze, as inside the flat it was a sticky, humid oven. This is leading to a crisis in my marriage: Do we sleep with the curtains open and the fan on, to bring the somewhat cooler night air into our second (or first, if you are British) floor bedroom; or do we turn off the fan and close the curtains as the sun comes up at 4:43 a.m. and hits us square in our sleeping faces? Decisions, decisions...

Hey ding a ding, ding

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

"It Was a Lover and His Lass," William Shakespeare

Spring has sprung in London. Actually, spring sprung several weeks ago, when the daffodils bloomed in bright yellow and cream bunches all over the city's parks. We're in tulip season now, although they are starting to look blowsy and overblown, like a ladette who's stayed too long at the pub. But it's spring! And it's semi-temperate! I can walk outside without assistance from wool, down or polar fleece!

It even reached summer temperatures last week. At lunchtime, office workers all over town gathered wherever open public space could be found to soak up every available ray. The sun stayed high in the sky until 8 p.m. or so (playing havok with my sense of time) and any sidewalk or even street in the vicinity of a pub was overcrowded with people come evening. London became one big outdoor cocktail party.

I love it.

Another report from the land customer service forgot

I've often joked that, in London, customer service is an oxymoron.

From sullen shop girls to surly waiters to just plain rude delivery people, service quite often falls below what is the American minimal acceptable standard.

(There is also quite wonderful service as well - the employees at the Starbucks across the street from work are consistently cheerful, friendly, fast and serve a mean cup of latte. Which makes up for the Starbucks next to my flat, where the coffee is cold and the baristas colder.)

However, nothing beats our recent experience trying to receive packages posted from America.

When we returned from Los Angeles, we had two package notices in our mail from a company called Parcel Force. One package had been left with the deli downstairs, and we retrieved it with no problem. However, the other package was "returned to our depot. Please call within five days." Lucky for us, it was the fifth day and so we called right away.

No worries, said Parcel Force. We'll deliver the package to your local post office tomorrow.

Great! we said.

So that afternoon, my husband went to the post office. No, no package for you, said the post office.

Gee, that's strange, my husband replied. He went home and called Parcel Force.

No worries mate, said Parcel Force. It's on our truck now. You should be able to pick it up tomorrow morning.

So when morning dawned, my husband, getting wise to their ways, called the post office first before making the trek.

No, no package for you, said the post office. And aren't you the bloke what came by yesterday?

Yes I am, replied my husband. And I was told the package was on the truck yesterday afternoon. You should have received it.

Sorry, mate. No package for you, said the post office.

So my husband called Parcel Force.

Oh right! said Parcel Force, after some shuffling of papers and transferring of lines. Says here that the post office refused delivery. So it's being returned to sender. It's already on its way.

At this point I removed all the sharp objects in the house, both for my husband's and my health.

At least this package made it to the UK. None of us have any clue where the Christmas package from my brother and sister-in-law ended up. It wasn't returned to them, and we have seen neither brown paper nor string.

And it could be worse. There's a chance this package will actually make it back to the sender. A package sent to me in the transatlantic pouch from my office in Los Angeles has been traced all the way to the post room in my building, only for the supervisor to tell me they have zero record of it ever arriving. This is despite the courier company providing a record of who in the post room signed for it and a time-stamped receipt.

Not to mention that many of my magazine subscriptions have gone missing. I rather expect it for the magazines mailed from the US, but the UK Vanity Fair? Now I know why magazine subscriptions here cost an arm and a leg compared to subscriptions in the US - it's because they have to keep replacing all the copies that go missing in transit.

The government has deregulated the Royal Mail and now private operators can pick-up, sort and deliver the post. I'm afraid, I'm very afraid. Of course, competition could lead to improved service. But I'm not putting my pence on it.

So, until we say different, please don't try to send us anything through the mail. We appreciate the thought, but donate to charity instead, or save it until we see you in person.

And US Postal Service? I hereby take back anything remotely mean I ever said or thought about you. You so rock in comparison.

Why Can't I Live in Two Places at Once?

We just returned from a ten day trip back to Los Angeles.

The trip was about as spur of the moment as a transatlantic trip can be: we made our plans on December 4, the day after the UCLA-USC football game.

I'm a USC alumna, and my husband has some pretty hardcore Trojan supporters in his family so he was an easy convert.

It sounded like the perfect excuse for a trip back to Los Angeles: The USC football team would be going for their third national championship title (sorry, any LSU lovers/USC haters out there, but the AP title counts. It has for over 50 years. So sit down and shut up. Thank you.) And they'd be playing practically at home, in the Rose Bowl. The last USC game we were able to attend was the 2004 Rose Bowl, a win over Michigan - it was time to see another one. The days in London are short and dreary, some Southland sun would do us good. And hey, we'd get to celebrate for surely Pete Carroll and co. would triumph. After all, they had for the last 34 games.

It will come as no surprise that the trip didn't go as planned.

It started with Virgin changing our seats from a window/aisle twosome at the front of the economy cabin to two seats in the middle at the rear of the plane, even though we checked into our preferred seats via the internet the day before the flight. Apparently, there had been a change of aircraft and our original seats no longer existed on this plane. A minor thing, but enough to start the trip off on a sour note.

The sun was also lacking, at least when we arrived. It was the first time in 52 years that it rained during the Rose Parade. In fact, it rained so hard that the floats were barely visible on television (we thought about going, but the weather put a quick kibosh on that). The viewing stands started out full, but as the parade went on more and more white bleacher space was revealed. And if the precipitation weren't omen enough that this would not be a Tournament of Roses to remember, KTLA's demotion of Stephanie Edwards from parade co-host to lowly sidelines commentator was. Stephanie and Bob Eubanks are a tradition, damn you KTLA! Just as much of a tradition as USC winning the Rose Bowl. Oops...

We didn't have tickets to the game. No problem, we thought. Yes, it's a national championship game and there's a lot of hype and endzone tickets are going for over $1200 each on EBay the day before the game, but c'mon. There's bound to be some scalpers at the game who'll eventually panic and sell the tickets for less.

Not.

We arrived at the Rose Bowl around noon, for a 5:15 p.m. kick-off, and got onsite parking immediately. See! This will be easy!

My, how naive we were. We should have grabbed a clue when we saw it was parking stacked ten deep and eight across, and we were surrounded by cars carrying people in ugly burnt orange. (Oh, c'mon. It IS an ugly color. It's so ugly, Crayola doesn't have it even in the big box.)

It turned out that not a small number of people, from both schools, had the same idea as we did re: tickets. There were far more buyers than sellers. The two pairs of tickets we were offered were $1400 each and $2000 each. We wanted to see the game, but we also wanted to keep a semblance of sanity. We walked around the Rose Bowl twice, stopping to refresh ourselves at my in-laws' RV, before resigning ourselves to watching the game on one of the bigscreen TVs set up by various tailgaters for the members of their party who couldn't get tickets (they even had satellite dishes linked up to the TVs so as to get the best signal).

But as we were walking back to the car to put away our tailgate gear, a guy saw us asking for tickets and told us he had singles to sell for $600 a piece. "Oh," we said. "It's a little steep but we'll pay it." Inside we were jumping up and down and screaming with excitement. We ended up with a pair after all - but in the Texas section.

Now, a disclaimer. I lived in Texas for five years, near Dallas. I know a lot of very nice, very intelligent, very cultured Texans. I know they are the norm rather than the exception.

And I could handle losing to Michigan. Or Penn State. Or Ohio State. In fact, a Rose Bowl vs. a Big 10 team? That's the way the world is supposed to work. Or even Notre Dame. Losing to Notre Dame is honorable. They're a highly respected rival. But the University of Texas? Crybaby Mack Brown who whined his way into a BCS game last year and "gangsta" Vince Young (hey, his words, not mine)? Losing to a team whose quarterback is such a poor excuse for a sportsman, he couldn't even shake Reggie Bush's hand when Reggie won the Heisman?

Oh, that HURTS.

Texas fans in person are some of the nicest people I've met. We were treated very decently, sitting in their section. But Texas fans online are obnoxious, moronic, and classless. Seriously, just stay away from sports message boards. I've learned my lesson the hard way.

I'm proud of the Trojan football team. It was a good game. If it had been one minute shorter or one minute longer, USC would have won. It was that close. Both teams played very well on offense, and both teams' defenses didn't show up at key moments. USC made one more mistake than Texas, and that was their downfall. If Reggie Bush hadn't tried to showboat and throw a lateral, the final score would be much, much different.

But, oh! Do I despise a certain segment of the online Longhorn fan population. Hatesss them I do, precious.

To get my mind off the game - and to return to my normal, sweet, humankind loving self (honest. I am usually a very nice person. Even to neo-cons, who after all make up 80% of my family) - I went shopping. Nothing like a little retail therapy to lift the soul. And there were many retail therapists to visit, from Target (I miss Target most of all, I think) to Anthropologie to Bloomingdale's.

Which brings me to the burning question: Why can't I live in two places at once?

I mean, I love London. I do. We're having a great life here. There's travel and theater and history and new things to learn and do and see. Sometimes I have to pinch myself, to make sure I take a minute and appreciate all that I have, the opportunity I've been given.

But then we visit Los Angeles. A place where I lived for twenty years and my husband lived his entire life. We have family there. Friends. Roots.

Life in Los Angeles is...easy, for lack of a better word. The weather is generally amazing, give or take a few winter downpours and a few sweltering summer days. So it's easy to get out, to get around. No need to struggle with umbrellas or mittens or muddy boots. And no need for an extensive wardrobe (unless you want one) - your spring clothes are your summer clothes are your autumn clothes. Add a few cardigans for winter and you're done.

Yes, you have to drive everywhere. And the freeways can be congested. But the streets are broad and for the most part well maintained. Parking is usually plentiful. It's just...easy...to go places, run errands, pick up and drop off at will. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy using public transport, especially knowing that I'm not polluting the planet with my individual gas guzzling machine. But it is such a hassle to run errands on public transport. Not only are you limited to just what your arms can handle, you also have to negotiate your bundles up and down stairs, squeezing past your fellow passengers, walking from the bus/tube stop home, etc. How wonderful to have cargo space and a back seat in which to put shopping bags, dry cleaning, take out meals, presents for friends and family members! You don't know what you'll miss until it's gone: for me, it's a car trunk.

And, oh, there's so many other things that make life in Los Angeles attractive. The beach. The sunsets. The neighborhoods that change ethnicity when you cross a street. The wide variety of food that comes from living among so many cultures. The farmers' markets. The Farmer's Market. Silverlake. Griffith Park. Dodger Stadium. The grassy median that divides San Vincente. Cinco de Mayo. UCLA Extention. And that's just the tippy-top of the iceberg.

When I'm in LA, I want to live there.

When I'm in London, I want to live here.

And when I'm in one city, I yearn for the other.

I guess as problems go, it's a pretty First World, privileged problem to have. So I'll shut up about it.

But London does have one thing that is currently tipping the scales in its favor: No one wears burnt orange.