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.

Merry Christma- um, Happy Holidays

We had a lovely Christmas. It was our second Christmas in London, just my husband and me. Which I suppose can sound sad and lonely, if Christmas to you means a house full o' kids and grandparents and neighbors. But there is something peaceful - and romantic - about Christmas spent as a couple, in a foreign country, far away from family obligations. (Don't get us wrong, we love our families and friends, and a good portion of the day was devoted to phone calls to the States.)

We woke up late, then breakfasted on that rarest of North American treats - proper buttermilk pancakes, with real maple syrup. Pancakes here are sad affairs, more like a French crepe than a griddle cake. But thanks to Costco, which is virtually identical on both sides of the Atlantic, we were able to whip up Krusteaz's finest. We exchanged presents, from the ridiculous - wine gums and Hobnobs - to the sublime. Our local pub was open Christmas afternoon, so we took the chess set and found ourselves a perch, drinking winter Pimms and eating mince pies while chasing rooks and pawns up and down the board. Then we rambled around Holland Park with our camera, taking photos of black bunnies and incandescent peacocks and the special Christmas Day guest star, a blue heron. Then home to prepare dinner: turkey and stuffing from the butcher; brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and cranberries from the greengrocer; champagne from the wine shop. All bought within a two block radius of our flat, and all of amazing quality.

I made pumpkin pie for dessert. I tried to save time by using storebought pie crust and, well, that was a mistake. Although the pie tasted fine, it certainly wasn't deep dish, or even medium dish. Still, it was an improvement over the last time we ate pumpkin pie in London, at the Ritz - that was whipped cream sprinkled with nutmeg served over a thin scraping of pumpkin puree.

In all, it was a Christmas to remember. A time to recharge and relax, to spend time together as a couple, to reflect and plan. Christmas in London is lovely not because of the decorations - for the most part, the British don't decorate their home exteriors (that's too gauche and, well, American) and the lights in the West End shopping district pale next to any US civic center with an ounce of pride - but because it is so quiet. No public transportation. No open businesses. I don't know what non-Christians do on Christmas because there are zero options other than sitting at home and watching the Queen's speech on the telly. No going to the movies and eating take out Chinese - the Dec. 25 tradition kept by nearly all my Jewish friends (and a lot of my Christian ones as well).

Which leads me to the recent hoop-de-doo over whether one should say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" when addressing people you don't know well. I read about the Wal-mart flap, with picketers demanding that Wal-Mart stop using the generic "Holidays" in favor of the specific "Christmas" on their in-store signs. Some Brits are also up in arms over which greeting to use; it was a topic of conversation on BBC Radio London and the subject of at least two editorials in the Times. The Brits came down heavily on the side of "Merry Christmas," with the various reasons including a) the UK is a Christian country, with a head of state who is also the head of the Church of England; b) Political correctness is an American virus that needs to be rooted out in the UK; c) December 25 IS Christmas, after all, it's a factual statement and you're just wishing them a pleasant day.

I'm going with "Happy Holidays."

Why? Are I some godless heathen? Some politically correct namby-pamby?

No, not really. It's because I am a Christian. And Christmas Day is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, the human son of God, born of Mary. It is a holy day, and while the presents and the food and the decorations are lots of fun, they're not what the day is about.

But I am aware that not everyone believes in Christ. Or even if they live in a household where Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny leave presents every year, they might not have made the very personal and intimate choice to have a deeper relationship with God. That's cool. I'm so not a proselytizing evangelical. Makes me break out in hives.

And the tree and the stockings and the wrapping paper and the fat guy dressed in red: those are pretty swell traditions. They're fun. More power to those who want to celebrate them. And now that I live on a northerly latitude I totally get why the ancients brought greenery inside the house and lit Yule logs - the days are dark and dreary, with sunrise at eight a.m. and sunset at four p.m. Christmas lights and mulled wine and hot mince pies make a short day almost preferable - the sooner the sun sets, the sooner the lights glow, the more inviting the pub looks.

But while these are trappings of Christmas, they're not really Christmas.

And not everyone celebrates Christmas. Get over it, Wal-Mart protestors. You live in a country founded on the principle of religious freedom, a country that rejected the establishment of a state religion.

Christmas can't be bought in a store. Christmas isn't a generic greeting to be handed off to one and all. "Happy Holidays" is so much more appropriate in a commercial and general social setting.

I don't want to be wished a Happy Rosh Hashanah or Happy Eid or Happy Diwali. Not because these are worthless, nothing celebrations - they're not. They are very important, very significant days. But they are not my holy days.

Why should those to whom these are the most holy days of year be wished a Merry Christmas? Why should those who don't have any religious beliefs be wished it as well?

Shouldn't "Merry Christmas" - as an expression of well wishes - be saved for those who revere Christ and commemorate his birth?

And shouldn't "Happy Holidays" - or "Season's Greetings" - be used for the commercial frenzy that, as fun as it all is, is rather incongruous as the celebration of a humble birth in a lowly stable? Not to mention that "Happy Holidays" is also a statement of fact - after all, New Year's is just a week later, and it also encompasses Hanukkah and Kwaanza.

I honestly don't get what there is to protest.

Or am I missing something?

More theatre!

It's almost the end of 2005, and time for the second half of the year theatre recap.

Since the last theatre entry, we've seen:

Guys and Dolls, with Ewan McGregor and Jane Krakowski, co-produced by Donmar Warehouse
This was a TERRIFIC production. I've always liked Jane Krakowski, and thought she stole the TV series "Ally McBeal" from all those stick figure girls who got all the newsprint. She was born to play Miss Adelaide, the burlesque dancer who just wants Nathan Detroit to make an honest woman out of her after being engaged for fourteen years. Adorable and sexy, she lit up the stage. The headlining star was Ewan McGregor, who has a pleasant voice and is far from difficult on the eyes (as millions of female Star Wars fans can attest). His Skye Masterson was appealing enough, and he turned up the sexual heat in the Havana nightclub number. But Krakowski and Douglas Hodge, who played Detroit, really shone. Score another steal from the big name star for Krakowski. One of my favorite West End musicals of the year.

Twelfth Night, Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park
Shakespeare in the park, London style. An absolutely gorgeous production, in which Regent's Park is turned into a tropical Spanish island colony. And there's a parrot. And they serve sangria at the bar. Not a difficult night out at all. Oh, and there's shipwrecked siblings, star-crossed lovers, lots of cross-dressing, and did I mention the parrot? OK, I might have had more sangria than was good for my comprehension of Shakespearean language. But it's hard to go wrong watching theatre in a beautiful setting on a lovely summer night.

Aristocrats by Brian Friel, at the National
A dysfunctional Irish family gathers at the ancestral pile as their father withers away. Gina McKee was v. v. good, but the play was sloooow, I had worked a long day, and, well, I was asleep long before the father died.

Theatre of Blood with Jim Broadbent, at the National
This was my husband's favorite play of 2005 (so far). A re-imagination of the 1973 Vincent Price MGM film, the stage play was a collaboration with Improbable Theatre. Broadbent played Edward Lionheart, an over-the-top Shakespearean actor who disappeared after a particularly vicious public dissing by seven theatre critics. Several years later, those same critics find themselves invited to an abandoned theatre. Each critic has an invite that is specifically tailored to flatter their pretensions. They soon learn that Lionheart is out to exact revenge, picking them off one by one in gruesome, gory and laugh-out-loud scenarios taken from Shakespeare. Campy but stylish fun, pulled off with panache.

Mary Stuart by Friedrich Schiller, with Janet McTeer and Harriet Walter, at Donmar Warehouse
Absolutely amazing acting, and my favorite play of 2005. We saw it in the very intimate setting of the Donmar Warehouse (it has since transferred to a larger venue), which really emphasized the personal in the politics played between the two Queens and cousins, and between Elizabeth and her courtiers. The play isn't historically accurate - the most riveting scene, in which a disheveled, passionate, impulsive Mary, Queen of Scots meets the impeccably groomed and emotionally controlled Elizabeth I, never happened - but it's theatre at its most compelling.

Henry IV, Part 1 and Part 2, with Matthew Macfadyen and Michael Gambon, at the National, directed by Nicholas Hynter
This production received mixed reviews and I'm not sure why, because I was riveted from the opening: King Henry standing on a battlefield still smoking from the conflict, with distraught women crying over their dead kinfolk in the background.

I sometimes have a hard time listening to Shakespeare's language as I grew up reading his plays instead of seeing them performed. I have no problem with his words on paper, but spoken Shakespeare is rather difficult to follow. Not this play. The language felt fresh and immediate, as current as the nightly news. This was helped by the production design, which was spare and elegant, suggesting medieval England but also the 21st century.

Both Macfadyen and Gambon have big Hollywood movies out now, but while Matthew Macfadyen's Prince Hal shared some of Mr. Darcy's mannerisms, Gambon's Falstaff was 180 degrees from Dumbledore.

HMS Pinafore by Gilbert & Sullivan, Open Air Theatre at Regent's Park
I drank less sangria this time (it was later in the summer and starting to get cold at night). In 7th grade, I was in the chorus of the school production of Pinafore, but either I've forgotten much of it or it was radically shortened (and cleaned up - don't remember all the baby switching) for our budding adolescent attention spans. And this production turned Deadeye Dick into a comic one man Greek chorus, breaking the fourth wall to explain the Victorian in-jokes. All good fun, cheerful and colorful.

The History Boys by Alan Bennett, directed by Nicholas Hytner, at the National
The History Boys will be transitioning to Broadway soon, and the play returned to the National for its run-up. I enjoyed this play, very much, even if some of the jokes and references were completely lost on me. Set in a grammar school (aka high school) in Northern England in the late 80s, the play is a rumination on education, coming of age, sexual identity and moral trade-offs. A group of male students are earmarked by the headmaster as "Oxbridge" prospects. However, the school has a terrible track record at prepping students for their entrance exams. The headmaster hires a teacher with Oxbridge credentials to ready the boys for their exams. However, the new teacher, who coaches the students to give the answers the examiners want to hear, conflicts with the boys' regular teacher who wants to teach them to think for themselves via a solid grounding in the classics. It's a very smart play, very funny play, very moving play. Highly recommended, although I'm curious how well it will transfer to the States - our high schools are very different. And even after 18 months in Britian, my husband and I missed quite a few jokes that had the rest of the audience in the aisles, while we found otherselves the only ones laughing in other spots.

2000 Years by Mike Leigh, at the National
This play sold out before it had a title. Leigh is famous for gathering a troupe of actors and improvising the play during rehearsal. This particular play turned out to be about a family of secular British Jews who are shocked and horrified when their grown son becomes devout and even *gasp* says his daily prayers. I have lots of respect for Leigh but 2000 Years felt like a small, sad tempest in a teapot; I'm sure it is because I am a Los Angeleno who has had lots of exposure to Jewish culture and especially to Jewish families that this didn't feel at all fresh or new (despite au courant references to Katrina and the Gaza pull-out.) Leigh didn't say anything about being Jewish in an Anglo world that Woody Allen didn't say better and funnier 20 years ago, and since religion is not quite the four letter word in America that it is Britian, the mishegaas over the son's religious awakening felt especially forced to me. A watchable play, with some really great acting, but worth skipping.

Ducktastic directed by Kenneth Branagh
We really wanted to see this. And it got some good reviews. So imagine our surprise when the producers announced that the show was closing early and all seats were just ten pounds.

As it turns out, ten pounds was rather steep. A really, really confused show - a cross between a Christmas panto, a magic act and a sketch comedy run amuck. Plus live ducks. My husband is convinced that the show came into being after someone muttered "duck knows" instead of its ruder cousin, only for another person to say "Eureka! What a great line on which to build a West End musical!"

It had some moments: Sean Foley is an incredibly gifted physical comedian, and I enjoyed his rubbery dances. Some of the illusions were spectacular (others, merely stupid). And I'm a sucker for live animals on stage, even large white ducks.

But since I'm not British, the cross-dressing, the faux nudity and the really bad puns were just lost on me. Sorry, Kenneth.

God of Hell by Sam Shepard, at Donmar Warehouse
I am a fan of Shepard's writing. But God of Hell is not one of his strongest efforts. It hits you over the head with a frying pan, and then just to make sure you get the message, it hits you with a side of beef, several plant pots, electric shock torture and finishes off with a nuclear bang.

Shepard's play - more like a rant - is a warning about the neo-cons leading America into a totalitarian future decorated with stars and stripes. And I hear ya, Sam. I'm not too happy about the neo-cons, either. But this the play is so dissonant that the message assaults the audience almost as much the neo-con character in the play assaults the military experiment escapee.

Lesley Sharp is very good as Emma, the one character who resists the neo-con's seductions and/or tortures. But overall, all I can say about the play is thankfully it was only a one-act.

We also saw two Broadway musicals this year, both more than worth the price of the ticket: Spamalot (and we paid exhorbiant ticket broker fees) and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Norbert Leo Butz is my new theater crush.

We have two more plays before the end of the New Year: the Royal Shakespeare Company's Great Expectations at Stratford-Upon-Avon and Patrick Stewart's one-man A Christmas Carol. And we've already got tickets for next year: more from the RSC (this year they're doing the Complete Works of Shakespeare, and we've tickets to a few of them), Resurrection Blues at the Old Vic, Once in a Lifetime at the National, and finally Billy Elliot in March. I love living in London!

On Being an Expat and Watching a Disaster From Afar

I have gone through so many emotions since Katrina hit the Gulf Coast.

I love New Orleans. I've visited the city many times. It's hard to put into words, but when I am in the city, my soul feels at home. I'm not necessarily a believer in past lives, but if I did have one, it was in New Orleans - that's how much I respond to the city on a molecular level.

So merely as someone who loves a place that has been damaged and hurt, I weep.

I also care a great deal for animals. I am so upset that the Aquarium of the Americas has lost most of its aquatic collection, and so very thankful that the animals at the Audubon Zoo and Center for Reproduction of Endangered Species have mostly survived and are healthy. My thoughts and prayers are with the good people of the Humane Society, ASPCA, Noah's Wish, the LSU Veternary School, Best Friends, Alley Cats Association and others who are working to rescue pets, strays, wildlife and farm animals from the damaged area. The Humane Society banner for donations is above. If you would like to donate to the Zoo and Aquarium, the Lincoln Park Zoo is spearheading fundraising efforts here: https://www.lpzoo.org/hurricane/relief.html

Above all, I am an American citizen who is deeply ashamed of her country's leadership. Ashamed and angry. The images on the television screen were shocking, disgusting and appalling. The British press consistently wonders why Sri Lanka, Thailand, India and Malaysia - all much poorer countries with far less resources - were able to give a much higher standard of care to their tsunami victims than the richest, most arrogant country in the world could give to victims of an event for which there was ample warning. British Superdome refugees are arriving home and going on television to choke up about the unspeakable horrors they witnessed.

But I guess Bush thought it more important to stay on his vacation and sing and joke with a country-western star than to worry about the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. Considering that the only thing that seems to stimulate him is oil, the fact that he let one of the major oil producing, refining and shipping areas get to its deplorable post-hurricane condition really speaks badly for how other, much less important when it comes to oil, areas of the country will fare in a different emergency. Meanwhile, Rumsfeld took in a San Diego Padres game and Condi shopped for shoes in New York City and went to see Spamalot (about another deluded would-be monarch) while people suffered the stuff of apocolyptic nightmares. Lives were lost needlessly thanks to the Bush adminstration and FEMA's criminal negligence and incompetence.

I am so, so mad. And tearful. But now, mostly mad.

If you don't think that Bush's actions are affecting how people in other countries see ordinary Americans, think again.

Last weekend, my husband and I went on an organized tour to the Champagne region of France. We traveled with 36 Brits, ranging in age from mid-twenties to around late sixties. On our first night, we gathered for our comparative champagne testings. A family, two parents with two grown daughters about my age, arrived too late to get a table that would seat all four together. So the parents came to sat at our table. One of the daughters came over to introduce herself.

My huband said his name, and she said, while moving on to shake my hand, "Oh, do I detect a Northern Irish accent?"

I said, "No, we're American."

"Oh, American!" And she dropped my hand as if I had said, "No, I have leprosy."

She - and the rest of her family - didn't say another word to us all weekend. The other tour members were polite to us, but we would catch snippets of discussion about Katrina - and how terribly the Americans were dealing with it - all weekend long. The conversation would die as soon as they realized we had entered the space.

They were nice, intelligent, educated people. And the waves of disgust emanating from them toward the United States was practically visible.

One of the things I miss most living abroad is having a shared culture with the people I encounter. Knowing proper line (or queue, as I say now) etiquette. Knowing what expectations to reasonably have vis-a-vis customer service. Cultural in-jokes. Above all, I miss not being judged simply on my accent. (The Brits, on the other hand, have accent-judging down to an art. Not just American/Australian/Indian subcontinent/etc., but Essex vs. the north vs. Cornwall vs. posh public school vs. S London, etc)

But right now I feel out of step with my culture, with my country. How can any reasonable individual with a modicum of ethical awareness support the current adminstration? And yet, so many people apparently do.

Katrina has made me a woman without a country to call my own. I'm truly an expat.

I've been cloned!

Or rather, my ATM card has been.

This is after my husband's ATM card was cloned a month ago.

It seems rather excessive to us (not to mention creepy and a bit scary.)

You have to understand that getting a bank account in Britain is one of the most bureaucratic processes around, especially for newcomers. First, to get a bank account you must have a home address. This is fine and dandy except when you are trying to rent or buy a home, which you can't do without a bank account. It's a situation Joseph Heller would be quite proud of.

We solved that one through the magic of corporate housing. But I feel for anyone who moves over without being on the company dime (or tuppence).

Next step: fill out the application for a bank account. You also need to have a lawyer testify in writing that he/she has examined your passports and that the copies you are sending with the application are, indeed, facsimiles of the actual thing. This is a problem if you don't happen to have a lawyer or two handy. Luckily, I work next door to one, so voila! Problem solved.

The application has to be mailed. No bringing it to a branch; must go through the post. And the reply? Also comes by post.

Off we sent our application. And after several weeks, a letter finally came informing us that we're now the proud co-owners of a British bank account. Would we like an ATM card? Then please, mail this card back. Oh, and the checks are being mailed under separate cover.

OK, when I put my husband on my bank account in California, we physically went to a local branch. We filled out some paperwork in the branch. We talked to the nice accounts officer who hit a few keys on her computer keypad, then stuck a blank ATM card in the card reader and had my husband punch in his PIN. We walked out of the branch with ATM card, checks, and joint account. We then went to his bank branch and repeated the process. Done in one day - oh, what a miracle it seems now!

Back to Britain. A week or so later, the checks arrive. Then, glorious day of days (because I was getting tired of all the conversion charges on my US account from using my US ATM card to withdraw cash) our British ATM cards arrived.

But no PIN.

We had to, yes, you guessed it, mail back a confirmation of card receipt slip (no calling an 800 number equivalent, no taking it to a branch for activation). Then, once the bank received our confirmation by post, and only then, would they mail us our PINs.

It's a painful process. P A I N F U L.

We received our PINS, changed them to something we would remember more easily, and life went on.

Then my husband's card was cloned. A few weeks later, mine was cloned.

Back in January, the government made a big fuss about "chip and PIN." All businesses are supposed to use, from the start of 2005, new technology that allows customers to "sign" for their credit/debit card purchases with their PIN. Big media campaigns told us to make sure all our credit cards have the requisite chip and to know our PIN.

It's August, and we're still being asked to sign for card purchases.

Merchants don't ask to see i.d. as there is no real government-issued standard. Many people don't drive in London so using drivers' licenses as ID is not really feasible. Passports are also not mandatory (although many more Brits than Americans have them). Tony Blair is trying to introduce a national ID card but that's a whole 'nother hot political potato. So when chip and PIN aren't used, merchants rely on checking the signature on the card with the signature on the slip.

Except, when, they don't.

Or when the card is cloned and the counterfeit card is signed with the counterfeit signature.

The most sophisticated card cloning technique is to surreptiously attach a card reader gizmo on an ATM machine. The user does his ATM banking as normal, but the gizmo captures the card number and PIN. A new card is then forged and before the owner of the bank account realizes it, the account is cleaned out.

Thankfully, we weren't the victim of that scam, although the ATM nearest to us did have a card reader gizmo attached to it some months ago. You can still see the holes where they drilled into the cash machine to attach the gizmo. No, our scam was a bit more pedestrian, and a lot more common.

A worker at some store we shopped at apparently copied down our card number and names, then used the information to create a new card. They didn't have access to our PIN, so they couldn't take cash out of our account. Instead, they used the clone card to make small purchases at supermarket-type stores, then asked for £50 cash back on top of the purchase. They would then repeat this at tens of stores a day, obviously knowing which clerks don't ask for chip and PIN.

On my husband's cloned card, they got £800. On mine, it's over £1000.

The bank caught on, in both cases, rather quickly and deactivated our cards. Unfortunately, I found out access was denied when I hit the sales to buy clothes for a business trip and my card was refused at the till. Oops.

The bank was very nice about the identity fraud and they reimbursed us for the stolen funds with expediency (the stores ultimately take the loss). However, this means we need new ATM cards.

They're coming.

In the post.

I (heart) London

I may give the impression in this blog that I don't enjoy London, or the British.

Not true!

Oh, there are things that tickle my funnybone, and my sarcastic bone, and my seeing red bone (Decca Aitkenhead, I mean you). But overall I LOVE London, and if I tease, or throw barbs, it's because I care.

Things I love:
Walking along the South Bank at sunset, taking in the free performances on offer at the National Theatre, Royal Festival Hall complex or the Tate Modern
Rows of white stucco Georgian townhouses with brilliantly colored front doors
Wandering down a side street and discovering, thanks to a blue plaque, that someone you admire once lived there
Rowing on the lake in Regent's Park
Watching small children feed the swans and ducks in St. James's Park
Going for a jog along Rotten Row in Hyde Park and imagining what a scene it must have been during the Regency era (or at least it was in all the Regency romance novels I read)
Pubs with beer gardens in the summer
Pubs in general
Gastropubs especially
Black taxis. Best damn taxis and taxi drivers in the world.
The ease and expediency of the tube, even if I do complain about using it in summer
Selfriges
Walking through Holland Park and spotting foxes, rabbits and peacocks
Sitting on the top deck of a double decker bus and getting a new perspective on the streets
Bookstores. Especially Foyle's.
Rows of red brick Victorian terraces, with brightly blooming flowerboxes
Wagamamas
Outdoor opera and theatre
The National Theatre
TKTS
Time Out, most weeks
British women's magazines: always a new one to pick up when I need something with which to kill an hour or so, and somehow not nearly as annoying as their American cousins
Museums: The V&A, The National Portrait Gallery, The National Gallery, Tate Britain & Modern, Royal Society of Arts, The Museum of London, The London Transport Museum, etc. etc. etc. We've become a member of most of them and couldn't be happier about it.
The no-nonsense attitude of Scotland Yard - I admire them so much after watching them handle persnickety journalists during the London bombing investigation

The list will go on - almost every day there's at least one new thing that makes me grateful to be here. Do I miss the States? Often. But we're not ready to go home. We'll see if we ever are.

Picnic at the Ambassador's Residence

Last Sunday, the American Society in London held a picnic to celebrate Independence Day at Winfield House, otherwise known as the US Ambassador's residence. The party was off by six days as Fourth of July was A) a Monday and therefore a proper work day in Britain and B) the embassy staff had to spend the weekend prior to the Fourth gearing up for the G8 summit in Scotland.

Winfield House is a beautiful Neo-Georgian mansion built in the 1930s by "poor little rich girl" Barbara Hutton, the heiress to the Woolworth fortune who numbered Cary Grant among her many husbands. It sits on 12 acres of private gardens inside Regent's Park in North London. During World War II the Royal Air Force used the mansion and grounds to house a balloon unit, and when Hutton returned to the house after the war she sold the now much worse for wear property to the US government for $1. It's been the home of the US ambassador ever since.

Sunday was hot, sunny and bright, with just enough humidity to push the heat into uncomfortable. We took the Tube, fairly empty for a Sunday, up to Baker Street, then walked past the Sherlock Holmes memorabilia shops to Regent's Park. The paths through the park were crowded and the mood rather festive - bombs may have gone off a few days ago but that's the last thing to stop Londoners from enjoying rare moments of shining sun.

To get to Winfield House, we needed to walk up a street that had been closed to car traffic. At the bottom of the street was a very large mosque. Standing on the corner was a policeman in his distinctive tall, rounded hat, white shirt and billy club. I couldn't help but be struck by the proximity. Was the policeman there to protect the mosque from hate crimes? Or the partygoers attending a very USA-centric event from extremists? Or both?

At the top of the street, there were more policemen/women. So there were concerns about the party, after all. I felt for the Met officers; I'm sure they had better things to do than babysit a bunch of Yanks. And it was HOT on the asphalt; I was sweating in my light cotton shirt and floaty peasant skirt. Those poor bobbies in their dark hats and kevlar vests, standing full bore in the sun.

Attending a picnic at a US Ambassador's residence is like boarding a plane: you must hold your own ticket, in your own name; your name is checked against your passport; your bag is searched; and a metal detector is the official welcome gate to the party. However, the food was much better at the end of this security process than it normally is on a plane. Instead of sandwiches made the day before and served on a tray the size of a paperback book, we were able to choose from hamburgers, hotdogs, steak, barbeque chicken, salad, corn on the cob, watermelon and ice cream. Oh, and crepes. 'Cause nothing says Fourth of July better than a crepe just like the street vendors back home in Paris make. Not to the mention that the chicken and steak were provided by Outback Steakhouse. At least the French had something to do with the American Revolution - namely, their help pushed the Americans into the win column. The Aussies, on the other hand...the connection is lost on me. But the chicken was excellent, even if sadly there were no Bloomin' Onions in sight.

We grabbed food and looked for the nearest shady spot. Luckily, there were plenty of grassy space under leafy trees, and we had prime people watching opportunities. My favorite sightings? Three young boys, tearing away, racing around the lawn. One was dressed in a homemade Uncle Sam costume, blue cotton tails flapping behind him. A young girl, about six, dressed in a flowery sundress, chatting with the two policemen armed with sub-machine guns. An incongruous but oddly sweet image. Too hard to put into words but the sight encapsulated all the things I felt: hope for the future as embodied by the young girl; joy in communication with others, regardless of accent; the sadness of seeing machine guns at a picnic filled with children, so much a statement of the current times.

We enjoyed wandering the gorgeous grounds of the Winfield House - even the port-a-potties were class acts, set in a wooded glade, with vases of fresh-cut flowers and posh hand lotion in the loos. Our d'oh! moment came when we were trying to identify the various state flags flanking the entrance to the house, and even competing with others trying to do the same: the task became much easier once we realized the states were in alphabetical order, and then we all fell down laughing when we saw the ID markers at the base of each flagpole.

The charge d'affairs (the new ambassador has yet to move in) gave the requisite speech of the day; because the date had been pushed back, what should have been a Anglo-American celebratory event now reflected the pain and horror of last Thursday. I didn't necessarily agree with the words; I'm not a fan of the current US administration. But I do hope the Fourth of July picnic in London goes on for another 111 years, and that the policemen who attend future parties will be able to relax their grip on the weaponry. And come enjoy the shade instead of boiling out on the street.

Recovery and press post mortem

The pulse of London, at least in the West End, feels back to its usual hyperkinetic self.

The busses and tube trains are operating almost at normal capacity; the Circle, City & Hammersmith, and portions of the Picadilly Line remain down. But the Central line, which is my usual conduit into the city, is running fine. The trains have been lightly occupied during the day, but last night it was standing room only.

The stores in Oxford Street, in the midst of the half-yearly sales season, are doing brisk business. Women in burkas and head scarves search the half-price rails next to teenagers in skimpy tank tops and mini skirts. You hear ten different languages from every corner of the globe for every one overheard conversation in English.

The line at TKTS was short but bustling; we saw As You Like It in a fairly full theatre (the play has had so-so reviews so I doubt even before the terrorist attack it played to sold-out audiences. I'll save the review for my next theatre round-up but let's just say Jude Law probably doesn't need to worry about demand for Sienna Miller's acting services causing too many separations in their future).

No one on I saw on the tube or the bus seemed overly concerned or worried about lightening stricking again, although the papers today made references to worried commuters. It's in the back of your mind - how can it help not be? - but I caught few side glances or appraising looks despite carrying a backpack. But then, I doubt I look like anyone's conception of a bomber.

In fact, if I didn't read the papers or watch the news, I'd be hard-pressed to tell London was the scene of a recent terrorist atrocity. There's a lot of talk about the British resiliancy, the British "suck it up" attitude, the British "just get on with it" reaction to adversity. It's all true. The Brits also seem to be innate pessimists, which serves them better in times like this - it's just confirmation of what they already expected, so why moan about it?

And then there's the British press.

It's incredible to me that journalism here is such a blood sport. And I mean sport. There's little regard for "who, what, when, where, and how;" it's much more fun just to make stuff up and apologize later if you get caught. Press objectivity is an oxymoron (along with customer service and good Mexican food); opinion is presented as fact and vice versa. Events are personalized and told through a subjective lens. For world events, I read US newspapers such as the NY Times, LA Times and Wall Street Journal or else I'd have no topline, objective summary. For British events, I have to read two newspapers just to get a balanced, complete view: The Times, which is considered to be conversative, and The Guardian, which is considered to be liberal. If I just read one, I'd only have a very skewed, one-sided perspective. And neither of them is the most read paper in Britian - that distinction belongs to the tabloids such as The Sun and News of the World, which don't even pretend to be hard news outlets. Pity the Brit whose conception of the world is formed by these papers.

Under attack

On a pretty September morning nearly four years ago, I woke up in my one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles, took a shower, got dressed, and turned on the television.

On a split screen, one side showed smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers, the other showed smoke pouring out of the Pentagon.

"What film is this?" I thought, and I started clicking through my mental index of action films with buildings on fire. As a former film studies major and current entertainment industry employee, it's a pretty comprehensive list.

Then Dan Rather came on the screen. "Dan Rather was in a movie?" I wondered aloud, and even as it slowly began to sink in that I was watching live, actual news footage and not a fictional film, I still ran through movie titles in my head.

That's how surreal the day felt to me. I even kept my early morning dental appointment. As the hygienist and I silently watched the events unfolding on the small TV mounted above the dental chair, my cell phone would ring. And ring. I would interrupt the hygienist's work to speak to friends, relatives, my staff. It wasn't until work was cancelled for the day that I finally understood that the world had changed. And it would never be quite the same again.

Although, y'know, you live your life. It goes on. So today, I woke up in my London maisonette, got dressed, kissed my husband goodbye, went to the gym, showered, got dressed again, and got on the Tube. As I passed through the turnstiles the message board caught my eye: three stations closed due to "power failure:" Bank, Westminster and Liverpool Street. Station closures are common enough that I didn't give it another thought except to note that three seemed rather excessive and, with the successful Olympic bid now counting down a clock, I hoped Transport for London would be able to sort that out in the next seven years. I got off at my regular tube stop and walked to work, unaware that the next station on the line would be the scene of a bomb attack.

I'm safe, my husband is safe, my co-workers and friends are safe, and I am incredibly grateful to be able to type these words. I'll be angry soon, but for now I am just happy that everyone I care about is healthy and accounted for.

It's back to feeling surreal; I'm watching it on the television like I did four years ago, even though the events are much closer geographically this time. The shock and horror diminish the further in time we get from the bombs; the news has gone from covering breaking events to talking heads sorting through the scant available evidence, trying to make reasonable the unreasonable, trying to enforce an order on chaos. The talk in the hallway has shifted from hushed murmurs to excitable chatter to impatient wondering about when can we go home? How will we get home?


****

They lock our building down until around noon. The police evacuated the buildings across the street, but told us to stay put. See, we have blast proof glass; the guys across the street just have the normal break-y kind. Ah, the advantages of working overseas for a US company - you automatically think you will be a target. Members of my staff tried to go next door, to see the colleagues who work there, but were refused entry even with their security passes. However, they said that Number 38 busses were lined up and down the street. The rumor is that the police are checking them for explosives since apparently it was a Number 38 that blew up in Russell Square, just 'round the corner.

Sirens scream past.

There are only three kinds of sandwiches left in the canteen downstairs. It's been raided by the locked-in employees who would normally go elsewhere for substenance. I'm starving. My Starbucks latte and low fat carrot cake are long consumed memories; they were eaten pre-bomb news and so it feels like I last ate an eon ago. I take the most appealing of the bunch: chicken and pesto on white sandwich bread. When I get the sandwich upstairs to my desk, I discover the bread has been buttered. WTF??? Butter on a chicken and pesto sandwich??? While I have long known of the British penchant for buttering their sandwiches regardless of filling, this throws me. Badly. I've lost my equilibrium for even the most trivial of matters.

I could have had the fish, the featured hot meal of the day.

But I couldn't face eating a trout with skin, tail fins, and bones still intact. Not today.


****

At 3:30, Human Resources finally gives us the all clear to go home. There's been little enough work done, although there has also been little panic or moaning. I have a feeling no one will call the emotional health hotline number with which HR kindly provides us. We start to make travel plans. Some of us will walk to the nearest open train station or to home itself. One brought his bicycle to work and can pedal home. Another will meet her partner at his work and then bum a ride from a friend. Still another gets a ride in a senior executive's car service. I'm walking.

The streets are crowded. I've never seen the sidewalks so full. Rivers of humanity, flowing through London with the strength of the Thames exponentially multiplied. I'm jostled and bumped, flotsam in the current.

I left my work tote at the office, but the gym bag is strapped to my back - Monday will be difficult enough without dealing with damp, sweaty clothes left to ferment for three days. It's heavy, thanks to the book, water, and wedge espadrilles I threw in. But the Nikes are on my feet. I'm now sold on going to the gym - thanks to forcing myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m., I missed being trapped on the tube and now have comfy shoes for the four mile walk home. I will never bitch about my body's refusal to keep weight off without working out again.

The walk to Marble Arch goes quickly in comradely conversation. I say goodbye to my co-workers, who are off to scavenge a train at Paddington. My husband is waiting for me at the marble monument, near the spot where once grew a tree where the villains, traitors and just plain unfortunates of an earlier London were hung. The street bears the old name of the gallows: Tyburn. It makes me realize that life has always been uncertain - and religion has always been used as an excuse to kill and maim political rivals. I would still rather live in the 21st century with al-Quaeda's cowardly, unmanly and blasphemous attacks than to live in, say, Tudor England during Henry VIII's reformation or his daughter Queen Mary's attempt to reinstate the Roman Catholic Church.

Hyde Park is full of pedestrians. My husband remarks it looks more like a highway than a park path. Sirens continue to scream past.

We run into good friends at our local Tesco. They agree to come over for dessert after we finish our respective dinners. We nurture our friendship over strawberries and cream and share our stories, our near misses. It would be the perfect ending to any other day.

Hot time in the old town

I know there are worse hells than riding the Central line to work in the summer. But when you are on the train that air conditioning forgot during a heat spell, it's hard to remember to count your blessings.

It's HOT in London right now. I know this is something to be celebrated, for it is not often that this weather comes our way. Judging by the angry red sunburns I spot around the office, it seems that quite a lot people paid homage to the cloudless, bright blue skies over the weekend

But with the sun comes heat. And with the heat comes miserable Tube rides.

The Tube is the mirror image of the New York Subway (or at least, the sections of the Subway that I have ridden.) Everything is reversed. The Tube has expansive platforms but small, almost doll-house sized trains; the Subway has cramped platforms but people-sized trains. The Tube has terrific directional signs but every available surface is plastered with ads; the Subway has maps that require native assistance to read, but its station walls have a minimum of consumer messages. Most important (at least in summer), the Tube has hot, airless trains; the Subway has air-conditioning. NYC wins hands down.

I can't decide which is worse about the Tube in summer: the stagnant, stale air; the ovenlike heat; or the smell of dozens of people with highly individual standards of what passes for acceptable personal hygiene in public. At rush hour, the bodies press against each other, and the heat rises and turns sticky. Of course, I could be stuck in my former hell, a Sig-Alert on the 101/405 interchange at rush hour - even normal traffic patterns on the 101 and 405 are most people's idea of a traffic nightmare - but at least my car had A/C.

However, I take comfort that my commute to work isn't putting ozone depleting fluorocarbon in the air - and that in London, heat is the exception rather than the rule.

Theatre, darling, theatre

Whenever we go back to the States, the first thing my husband and I are asked is: "So, what shows have you seen lately?"

I'm happy to report that we have, indeed, been trying to take full advantage of living in one of the world's premiere theatre towns.

In fact, we've decided to celebrate holidays, British and American, by seeing a show. It started at Thanksgiving. It was the first one away from family for my husband, and I wanted to make it special. So I made us lunch reservations at the Ritz (and very ritzy is was, too, although their pumpkin pie left something to be desired. A pie crust topped by a millimeter of Libby's pumpkin underneath an avalanche of nutmug-infused whipped cream is just not pumpkin pie - sorry but there it is) but the best was saved for later: tickets to see Nathan Lane and Lee Evans in the The Producers. Nathan Lane was in the play but for a short time (filling in for Richard Dreyfuss who had a sore shoulder, or so they said) and I had snagged orchestra tickets the day the substitution was announced.

A London crowd doesn't grant standing ovations to just anyone. They are a very discerning bunch. The actors and the production have to really earn their kudos from an audience that feels that overt displays of emotional response are just not done (that's something Americans do, after all.) But when Nathan Lane and Lee Evans took their final bows, the crowd was on its feet, hands coming together in a blur of sound and motion, cries of huzzah! and bravo! almost drowning out the appreciative but piercing whistles.

The Producers was the best received theatrical production we've seen so far, but we've been lucky enough to see the following:

Oleanna by David Mamet, with Julia Stiles and Aaron Eckhart
A decent production; Julia Stiles was very convincing but Aaron Eckhart less so.

Democracy by Michael Frayn
Very thought provoking and compelling; one of the best experiences I've had at the theatre. Willy Brandt and Germany in the 70s doesn't sound like the most intriguing subjects for a play, and yet the audience is mesmerized. I'm sorry that the NYC production closed after five months; it's a play that I hope lots of Americans get to see.

His Dark Materials part 1 and 2; based on the Philip Pullman novels
A truly jaw dropping set design made this play work for me; the set was two stories high, rotated up and down on a drum, and no two scenes were in the exact same setting. Incredibly inventive costume design and wonderful use of puppets to represent the characters' "daemons" made this a lovely production to look at. Unfortunately, even with six hours of stage time, the story still felt abridged and truncated - but then it was adapted from a densely plotted fantasy trilogy. Neither my husband nor I felt that the lead actress was up to the role, but we saw her understudy on the second night and liked her much better. Definitely worth seeing.

A Life in the Theatre by David Mamet, with Patrick Stewart and Joshua Jackson
Professor X in his underwear. May I say that Patrick Stewart has very nice legs, and a pretty impressive physique? Oh, and Joshua Jackson in his skivvies was also pretty easy to look at. What, you mean there was a play? Eye candy aside, both actors acquitted themselves quite well. Jackson kept up with Stewart through all the stops and starts of Mamet's dialogue, even if one couldn't stop thinking "Hey, it's Pacey and Picard!!"

Aladdin with Ian McKellen
From Professor X in his y-fronts to Magneto in a dress... The English have a treasured tradition at Christmas time of "pantomime." This has nothing to do with Marcel Marceau and men wearing striped shirts trapped in invisible boxes; instead, a pantomime, or panto, is a children's play, Traditionally based on a fairy tale but involving audience participation, schtick so broad a plane could land on it, and a man in drag, we learned that panto is an acquired taste and it probably helps if you grew up with it. This was our New Year's Eve celebratory play, and while I can think of worse ways to say goodbye to the old year than to watch Ian McKellan dressed up like Shirley MacLaine in her Rat Pack days, I can't think of a more surreal one.

Mary Poppins
Our Valentine's Day play. Highly acclaimed when it opened, Mary Poppins is now overshadowed as the premiere West End musical based on a movie by Billy Elloit. Still, a very great night at the theatre; everything you want from a musical from terrific dancing, charasmatic leads, sing-along songs, and moving emotion. At once very different yet similiar to the Disney film, the play is more adult than its predecesor but lacks some of its joie de vivre. Some songs from the film have been transplanted, others have been reworked or are missing altogether, and new songs have been added. But thankfully for the British audiences, Bert has an authentic Cockney accent (they still haven't forgiven Dick Van Dyke.) The highlight of the play is when Bert really does go "over the rooftops" during "Step In Time" - all in all, a fun evening out.

Madame Butterfly by Puccini
The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden is absolutely gorgeous, even when sitting way up in the balcony. A beautiful production in a perfect setting.

Macbeth (opera) by Verdi
In the summer, the remains of Holland House in Holland Park are turned into an outdoor opera stage (albeit under a tented roof thanks to London's damp summers). It's a small, intimate setting. The production design matched the spare space: a white-washed backdrop that gradually became crimson thanks to an inventive curtain of water that slowly washed away the top coat to reveal the deep red beneath as MacBeth and his lady plot their murderous deeds. Lady Macbeth was outstanding, her husband a little less so, but their amorous, amoral passion burned bright. And nothing beats having a split of chilled champagne waiting for you at intermission.

The Philadephia Story by Philip Barry; with Kevin Spacey and Jennifer Ehle
One has to give Kevin Spacey credit for gutsy choices in his first season as artistic director of The Old Vic: he puts on a Danish play with a title that translates as "sewer," giving the London press lots of headline ammunition for their reviews; he tackles that most English of traditions, the pantomime, with Ian McKellan (not necessarily known for his clowning skills) as the dame; he then picks National Anthems, a very American play about intrigues in white picket fence suburbia; and he follows it up by taking the Cary Grant role in The Philadelphia Story.

The play is well cast; Jennifer Ehle, who I only knew as Lizzie Bennet in the decade-old Pride and Prejudice, was a lovely Tracy Lord. She more than held her own on the stage. Tracy is not the easiest of characters to love; she bans her father from her wedding as a start. But Ehle imbues her with wit and grace, and you can see why three men (four, if you count her father) fight for the love of a heroine who is called cold and unfeeling by her family and loved ones more than once. DW Moffatt, who I only knew from bad sitcoms, was a hale Macauley "Mike" Connors, if rather bland and generic in his approach. Moffat didn't try to be Jimmy Stewart; in fact, he seemed to be channeling Cary Grant in "His Girl Friday." And speaking of Cary Grant... Alas, CK Dexter Haven, we hardly got to know ye in this production. It's hard following in Grant's footsteps. But Spacey's very angry yet inaccessible Dexter was not a step toward creating the role in his own image. His sudden turn on a dime from scary berating ex-husband to hop-skipping around the room happy suitor was especially jarring.

Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward
We got our seats from TKTS for half price, and I'd say that was about right. A fun night, as you expect from Noel Coward dialogue, but nothing incredibly memorable.

Grand Hotel by Luther Davis, Robert Wright and George Forrest; with Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio
The Donmar Warehouse puts on intimate theatre in the (almost) round, and while a musical that in its last incarnation was a huge, splashy Broadway production might seem an odd choice for such a small space it worked quite well. Mastrantonio didn't disgrace herself in the role of the faded ballerina (actually, I thought she was pretty affecting) but the rest of the cast really shown. An interesting, thoughtful production.

Tickets upcoming: Henry IV part 1 & 2 at the National, with Michael Gambon; Guys and Dolls (our 4th of July play) with Ewan McGregor and Jane Krakowski; and Mary Stuart at the Donmar Warehouse. Can't wait!