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!

National Health Service - or not

My husband and I registered with the National Health Service yesterday.

The NHS is Britain's health care system. UK residents are entitled to free medical treatment, provided it's within the prescribed standards and limits. But you can't just go to any doctor; instead, you enroll on the lists of a local GP. Once you're registered, your GP is your first stop for most medical needs. Obviously, if it's an emergency, the ambulance is allowed to go straight to the emergency room without stopping at the GP's office. But all other health concerns must go through the GP first. If you need a specialist - dermatologist, ob/gyn, cardio - the GP writes a referral.

It sounds like a very civilized system, certainly better than the current US one of HMOs/PPOs/Medicare/insurance premiums/skyrocketing out-of-pocket expenses.

But.

If an American doctor gave out the same recommendations re: frequency of tests as the NHS, the American doctor would be sued for malpractice.

Mammogram: Only for women over 50, and then only every three years (!)
Pap Smear: Every three to five years (!)

What, they think cancer cells are on a three year cycle??

And the British government has recently recommended that people only need to see the dentist once every two years (if they aren't experiencing any problems, that is.) Nice to see that stereotypes about English orthodontia will be alive and well for years to come, apparently!

While the referral system sounds quite orderly, it can take months to see a specialist. The people with whom I work schedule their job around their medical appointments, rather than vice versa, because if they miss their appointment that's it for many moons. The newspapers are full of stories about dirty NHS facilities where the MRSA superbug breeds unchecked. Today's Guardian contained a heartbreaking story about a German couple who lost their baby after a normal birth went disasterously wrong because of a shortage of NHS hospital personnel.

Nonetheless, Britain is full of hale and hearty people so obviously the NHS is doing something right. I hope.

Please keep your fingers crossed we stay healthy and accident-free!

A Glossary of Terms

One of my pet peeves - and it's a minor one - is Americans who throw British and/or Australian slang around, peppering their otherwise normal YankeeSpeak with the odd "git" or "shite" or "cheers." We have perfectly acceptable alternatives such as bastard/bitch, crap and thanks; and quite frankly, using one or two words of BritSpeak does not make you sound British/Aussie. Not if you are going to continue using your YankeeSpeak for 99% of your communication.

So, for those who are unaccountably attached to their shite, I present the first of my admittedly unscientific and incomplete glossary of BritSpeak so you can impress your friends with your multilingual skills:

Brit to US:
Take Away = To Go
When you order your food, you'll be asked if you want "take away." Some London Starbucks baristas will ask if you want your coffee to go, but then the Starbucks chain prides itself on worldwide consistency. Don't even start to confuse your food server by asking for "carry out."

Custom, tailor-made = bespoke
I love the word bespoke - it sounds so terribly uppercrust British - but it took me a few uses of the word in context to get it.

Dessert = pudding
While pudding is also used to describe the traditional British steamed pastry (plum pudding, even Yorkshire pudding), it is also generic for anything sweet served after a meal. But sadly, Bill Cosby would rarely be served his favorite pudding for pudding - there are mousses and custards aplenty, but no chocolate pudding cups in the Tesco aisles.

Fairy lights = Christmas lights
Fairy cakes = cupcakes
The British seem very fond of fairies with gossamer wings and flower wands. Whereas little American girls dress up as princesses (usually of the Disney variety), here fairy costumes seem more prevelant. Unfortunately, I can't see these names ever catching on in the US...

Vest = tank top
Waistcoat = vest
fancy dress = costume
cossie (short for costume) = outfit
bathing costume = bathing suit
jersey = pullover sweater
sweater = cardigan
polo neck = turtleneck
open neck = polo collar
trousers = pants
pants = underwear (pants is also another way to say crappy - "It's pants.")
knickers = panties
big pants = unsexy cotton briefs, usually white or flowered
scary pants = control top briefs
It can get very confusing when shopping for clothes with British friends.

knackered = tired
chuffed = pleased
The first time I was told someone was "chuffed," I looked for someplace to hide - well, it sounds like "in a huff," doesn't it?

wobbly bits = bum, boobs, and thighs (usually used by women when referring to their bodies)
private bits = male or female "private parts"
dangling bits = male private parts
fanny = butt
front fanny = female private parts
My office in London has a hard time keeping a straight face whenever they have to speak to Fanny the receptionist at the home office.

aubergine = eggplant
courgette = zucchini
For a country that spent several centuries fighting France and still likes to sneer at the Frogs, you'd think they'd drop the French words for the alternatives...

rocket = arugula
salad (on a sandwich) = lettuce, tomato and cucumber
tuna mayonnaise = tuna salad (without relish)
ploughman's lunch = bread and cheese
granary loaf = whole wheat bread
sweetcorn = corn (what, there's bitter corn?)
And don't get me started on the British habit of adding corn (excuse me, sweetcorn) to everything!

bank holiday = national holiday
minibreak = weekend holiday or long weekend

Father Christmas = Santa Claus (although Santa is also very prevelant)
baubles = Christmas ornaments

So...the start of what will probably be a long and growing list. Ta!

Come back November - all is forgiven

So far, St. Swithin is proving to be one damn fine meteorologist.  We've had at least one rain shower a day since.
 
But yesterday, after the morning shower, the sun came out - and brought along its buddy humidity to play.
 
Now, many people find humidity to be an every day occurance so I'm sure to get little sympathy.  But there's a reaon why I live in Southern California and not, say, the Amazonian rain forest.  LA may be the weather home of the hot, but it is also the home of the dry.  No heat index for us (although we get fire hazard warnings instead, so I'm not sure we win).
 
In fact, living with humidity is much better than fearing all your earthly possessions will go up in a brush fire.  But since the closest brush to me in LA was at least several miles of concrete and asphalt away, I was pretty content.  Not even desert-like days caused much concern, because the wonderful thing about living in a arid environment is that no cloud cover means no natural blanket keeping the day's heat from escaping into the ether.   You're pretty much guaranteed a temperate night.  And it gets cooler the closer you are to the Pacific Ocean breezes.  Since I lived four miles from the beach, it was the rare night when I cursed my building's owners for being too cheap to invest in central air.
 
But as I discovered yesterday, humidity lives up to all its cliches.  And to add insult to injury, I have curly hair that no amount of Frizz-ease will subdue.   For some reason, rainy weather just makes it form more intense ringlets; but humidity makes it resemble a dandelion in severe need of good puff of breath.
 
So come back November-like weather.  All is forgiven.  I don't want to wear my summer clothes after all - especially if it means feeling like I am taking a bath in them each time I walk outside.
 
(Lucky for me, today is back to overcast and dull - yay!)

Forty Days of Rain

America has Groundhog Day (although it's a European tradition) and Punxsutawney Phil.

England has St. Swinthin's Day and Winchester Cathedral. Apparently, the medieval church builders, being deprived of meteorology, came up with their own poetic means of forecast.

The rhyme goes 'St Swithin's Day, if it does rain, full forty days, it will remain. St Swithin's Day, if it be fair, for forty days, t'will rain no more.'

It certainly looked wet at Winchester today.

While I'm not taking the weather personally, it does seem like the clouds are conspiring to acclimate SoCal me to London life as quickly as possible. It is breaking me of the desire to buy floaty sundresses and open-toed sandals, which is a Very Good Thing as soon closet space will become a barely remembered dream. Better to use what little storage I will have for clothes that can actually serve a purpose.

But the dreary light is getting all of us down, locals included. According to GM.TV, this is the coldest summer in fifty-seven years. Living in perpetual November is just making us dread the actual November (and December and January and February). Without memories of summer sun to get us through the winter, it's going to be a long cold dark one indeed.

Geese and Ducks and Swans Oh My

There was a Tube strike last week, but I wasn’t upset about it. Instead, it forced me to walk to work, something I often thought about doing but wimped out at the last minute. Well, not really wimped out but dithered around the apartment until I was late to work, and the Tube, while not the most pleasant form of transportation, at least moves rather quickly.

I do walk home whenever I can. While the weather is not exactly summer by Southern California standards, I thoroughly appreciate the extended daylight hours. The sun doesn’t start to set until well after nine, which means I can work a long day yet still enjoy a well-lit journey home.

And enjoy the walk I do. I leave work and within fifteen minutes I’m near Convent Garden. I window shop, which is dangerous right now thanks to the large sale signs. L.K. Bennett in particular has lovely shoes on display. I admire the old pubs, painted green and blue and red, small reminders of how London looked in Georgian, Regency, Victorian times. Many are still housed in their original buildings, holding the surrounding concrete and glass at bay. Sometimes I stop at Marks & Spencer to pick up food for dinner.

Ten more minutes of walking and I’m in front of St. Martin’s in the Field, a beautiful 18th century church with a wonderful cafeteria in the crypt and jazz or classical concerts in the vestry nearly every night. Across the street is the National Portrait Gallery, and around the bend is the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. I stride through flocks of tourists and pigeons enjoying the broad steps, expansive plaza, and stone lions. Nelson gazes at the horizon from high above, searching for the sea but settling for the Thames.

I hop-skip-dash across the roads, avoiding red double-decker busses and black (and pink and blue and multihued with ads) taxis. Now begins my favorite portion of the walk, and I feel the tension leaving my shoulders and lower back.

I pass under the classical stone arches that mark the entrance to the Mall. At the other end is Buckingham Palace, but I will get off the Mall as soon as I am able and make a beeline for soft green lawns and sharp gravel paths of St. James’s Park. Once grass is under my feet I can feel my sanity building a reserve to help fight another day.

St. James’s Park has been called the loveliest park in London. At first I preferred the expansive space of Hyde Park, the broad sidewalks of Kensington Gardens. But now St. James’s holds most of my heart.

It’s the ducks. And swans and geese and pelicans. St. James’s has the most wonderful pond at its center, surrounded by woods and gardens. Hyde Park has the Serpentine and the Long Water, and Kensington has the Round Pound. But those are obviously man-made lakes, manicured and well delineated. St. James’s pond feels more genuine, like a tiny pocket of London that the developers forgot (or more likely, weren’t allowed by the Royal Family) to touch. And while I am far from an expert in avian psychology, the waterfowl seem to agree.

It’s duckling season at St. James’s, and the families are out in full flock. The youngsters range in age from just out of the egg fluffballs to gawky adolescents. The babies flock around the mother, who extends a sharp beak to anyone who dares to come to close. The seagulls especially are warned off.

I find ducks endearing. Maybe it’s the comical waddle when they are on land, or the graceful dives when they are in water. Ducks haven’t always been portrayed as the most amiable of characters; Daffy is a rascal while Donald is just irritable. But the ducks of St. James’s are my favorite London companions, now that my husband has gone back to the States.

I exit St. James’s Park at Queen Anne’s Gate. The brown-brick terraced homes with white trim that line both sides of the street are especially pretty. I envy the people who live and work there; imagine having St. James’s Park as your backyard. Supposedly, on August 1 the ghost of Queen Anne walks up and down the street three times. Even she wants to stay in Queen Anne’s Gate.

The Tube station is next; I congratulate myself on avoiding a smelly, dusty ride home. It’s housed underneath a Roaring Twenties ziggurat complete with Tamara style stone carvings. By the time I normally get home, the small shopping mall is closed. Everything is closed, except for the pubs that seem to attract lots of young men in white shirts and striped ties.

The streets are quiet between the station and my flat. I have now learned to look the right way (literally) when crossing the street, but it is normally not required. The only traffic is on Victoria Road. I cross it under the watchful eye of the policeman guarding New Scotland Yard, automatic rifle at his side.

The police headquarters is the last major landmark I pass on my journey home. Were I to continue up Victoria Road until it ended, I’d be in front of Westminster Abbey. A few more minutes of walking would bring me to Parliament and Big Ben. But I turn at the Starbucks sign for the comforts of my small studio flat, my temporary home until I find a more permanent one.

The calendar says June...the weather says November

I lived in Southern California for twenty years.

Which means, sartorially speaking, that I am not exactly equipped for London. I knew this, of course, before accepting the job offer. But I thought I had at least three, maybe four months before succumbing to the necessary heavy woolens and thick tights.

I was wrong.

Two days ago, blustery winds turned my umbrella inside out more times than I could count in the five minute walk between my flat and the tube station. I dug the one coat I had the foresight to bring with me out of the cupboard (closet rail space being at a premium in a London apartment) and zipped it up tight against the stinging cold rain. Underneath, my suit was wool - albeit summer weight wool. But at some point the fibers had resided on a sheep, so I assured my body it was dressed for the weather. Alas, vanity took over when it came to shoes. And while I looked mighty damn fine in my beige and black Via Spiga spectator slingbacks, worn without hose because, y'know, it IS June, my heels are still vaguely numb to the touch.

I'm told that we are having this weather because Wimbledon is now on, and that once Wimbledon finishes the sun will come out again. And actually, it's pretty much out today, and the players at Wimbledon are wearing white shorts and t-shirts and I actually spotted some spectators in tank tops.

But there's a black cloud on top of my building (one of the advantages of having an office window that looks into an atrium with a skylight) and after work I'm investing in a titanium brolly that is guaranteed not to turn inside out, even when it really is November.

London Underground Transport in Three Easy Rules

There are three rules about riding on the Tube:
1) Do not speak to strangers
2) Do not smile at strangers
3) Do not, in fact, acknowledge that there is anyone else on the train with you. Even if you are sharing a degree of body contact not normally shared by two people outside of a bed.

I made a rookie mistake my first week on the Tube: I brought a full, grande size Starbuck's coffee of day with me on the train. In my defense, I had already ensured that the lid was securely fastened. However, in all the jostling caused by starting and stopping and screeching through dark tunnels, some coffee managed to escape through the lid's tiny drinking slot and onto my hand. Which was gripping an overhead bar. Which was directly above a humorless woman in her twenties who was not amused to find precipitation of the coffee sort, no matter how minor, dripping onto her neatly pressed trouser leg.

One uses the Tube to escape precipitation, so I can understand her considerable consternation. Even if the drop was on the furthest end of the aquatic equation from a splash, and even if the pants were black in color and therefore not prone to stains. No matter. Coffee rain is inescusably rude, especially on a train where you oh so politely pretend that the rest of the sweaty masses taking up all the stuffy air just. don't. exist.

Actually, considering the cost of Starbucks in London, that drop of coffee probably cost me more than her, no matter how posh her dry cleaners.

Still, rookie mistake. From then on, my coffee was either at least halfway depleted before decending into the bowels of St. James Park station, or I just sucked up the caffeine deprivation dizziness until reaching the safe haven of the Starbuck's across the road from work.

By the way, if you enjoy Starbuck's coffee but you also like to take it over to the fixings bar to put about an inch of nonfat milk in it, and you're pretty used to telling the barista, "Grande coffee but leave room for cream," you might want to get out of the habit before coming to London. Because asking them to leave room for cream has led to some pretty funny looks. Including the barista who tried to explain that they didn't have full cream available, only half-and-half. And the barista who obviously wasn't familiar with the Imperial system, and who barely gave me a tall in a grande cup.

And then there's the barista who decided to get technical by asking "black or white."

"Black," my husband and I chorused.

"White?" she countered.

"No, black is fine. No milk," we said, hesitantly. Were we using the term correctly?

"So white - full or skim?" she continued.

"No milk. Just coffee," we stammered. I mean, yeah, we have American accents, but we're from California. We sound like most of the people on the telly here - y'know, like Rachel and Monica and Dr. Carter and Gus Grissom.

"Oh, black," she said, and looked us with that half-scornful, half-pitying expression most Brits have perfected - like a stern but ultimately forgiving nanny with a slow but earnest charge.

I now just ask for "grande coffee of the day, take-away please," and pour the first inch into the rubbish bin so I have room for for nonfat milk. I don't like doing this. People who pour perfectly good coffee into the trash was one of my pet peeves when living in California. And I'm sure I'm breaking yet another unspoken rule of London living. Not to mention the money literally going down the trash bag! But when it's a race to get to work, better to lose several pence than many minutes - at least this week.