A Lady in London

My boyfriend was kind enough to upgrade me to Business on my flight home from the U.S. to London.  When I arrived at Heathrow at the crack of dawn, my boarding pass allowed me to get into the American Airlines arrivals lounge in Terminal 3 so that I could take a leisurely shower and get some breakfast before starting my day in the UK.

Being germ-phobic (save for pork products, which I will eat regardless of the threat level of swine flu in London (my last post can attest to that!)), I took a shower with my trusty flip flops on.  No foot fungus for this Lady in London!

At the end of my shower, I stuffed said flops in a plastic bag to keep their moisture from oozing into the rest of my suitcase.  I thought I was being smart.

I wasn’t.

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After spending half of January, half of February, and half of March outside of London, I wanted to spend some good quality time with my home city this weekend.

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Snow!  Lots and lots of snow!  More snow than London has seen in 18 years!

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This week I discovered that I am the worst pumpkin pie baker in the world.  Since moving to London I’ve discovered the joys of British Christmas foods like mince pies and mulled wine. But ever since Thanksgiving I’ve been craving some all-American pumpkin pie.

Last week I was complaining about the lack of pumpkin pie to an American friend of mine that is an amazing cook.  She kindly offered me her (very complicated) pumpkin pie recipe.  I stupidly thought that I could handle it.

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When we moved into our new flat in June, my boyfriend and I wanted to throw a party.  Six months later, our flat was no longer quite so new and we still hadn’t managed to have our fête.

Then Christmas came along.  Everyone we knew was booked seemingly every night with a corporate holiday function, a dinner, or a trip home.  But for some reason we really wanted to have people over right before Christmas.

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Last year I spent Thanksgiving in Saint Petersburg, Russia, where my Thanksgiving dinner consisted of a vodka shot followed by a giant bowl of borscht. It was good borscht, but it just didn’t seem right to be eating Russian food for American Thanksgiving.

This year my family was visiting me in London and I was determined to have an authentic Thanksgiving dinner complete with a giant turkey. However, there was one small problem: the postage-stamp sized oven in my flat. No turkey—however small—would ever fit in there.

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The other morning I awoke to a beautiful autumn day with bright blue skies and crisp fall air. In other words, it was the perfect morning for a walk in Hampstead Heath.

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With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching and the U.S. election taking place today, my mind has been preoccupied with the land across the pond lately. But it hasn’t always been that way. Ever since I moved to London last year I’ve been trying to experience as many unique English traditions as I can. From the bizarre Shrove Tuesday Pancake Races to the upcoming Bonfire Night celebrations, I’ve tried to take part as best a foreigner can.

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When I first moved to Hampstead I spent awhile working my way through all of the local bakeries, tea houses, and coffee shops trying to find the best one. The quality and atmosphere varied widely; there was the old-but-well-loved Coffee Cup; the uber-pink, cupcake-filled Tea Cup, (yes, the names are very creative); the hyper-corporate Starbucks and its English counterpart, Cafe Nero; and the seemingly-never-open Chaiwalla, among others.

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Two nights ago I came home alone from a late dinner with friends and walked into my living room. A minute later I heard the sound of a small object hitting my window. Unnerved, I got up and closed the curtains. As I was doing so, another object slammed up against the window. I started to get a little nervous. I peaked around the curtains to see if there was someone outside. A third projectile collided with my window. At that point I was pretty scared.

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Once upon a time there lived a lady. She was adventurous and restless, and she longed to travel the world and live in far away places.

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“They call you lady luck
But there is room for doubt
At times you have a very un-lady-like way
Of running out…”
- “Luck Be a Lady,” Guys and Dolls

I am not a lucky person. I don’t win raffles, I buy losing lottery tickets, and I eschew the blackjack tables in Vegas for luck-neutral pursuits such as eating and people watching. Luck may be a lady, but it certainly isn’t this one.

On Friday I was wallowing in my misfortune over a down-to-the-wire flat search. The hunt had taken up way too much of my time over the past two months and yet had not turned up a suitable property.

Suddenly, I came across a listing for a flat in Hampstead that looked promising. I first noticed that the location was close very close to where I live now. On closer inspection, I realized that the property was in a beautiful historical building that is so close to my current flat that I can see it out my kitchen window.

I immediately read the details and was delighted to find promises of a two bedroom, two bathroom flat with a study and a private garden in a gated complex that boasted of a full gym and covered parking for our (imaginary) car. Upon viewing it, my boyfriend and I found that the flat was nothing short of everything we were hoping for. Not a bad find for an unlucky lady!

I didn’t want to get excited before the documents were drawn up. However, the landlady accepted our offer and the agent sent over the official contract tonight. On June 15, one day before we have to move out of our current flat, we will get the keys to our new one. Maybe I’m not so unlucky after all.

“Luck be a lady tonight
Luck be a lady tonight
Luck if you’ve been a lady to begin with
Luck be a lady tonight…”

I love to laugh. There’s nothing more satisfying than sitting around with friends laughing until my stomach hurts, my eyes tear up, and I can barely breathe. There has been much to laugh about lately, from things that are uncannily bizarre to things that are culturally humorous to things that are just plain hilarious.

First in the uncannily bizarre category is an incident that happened to me earlier this week. I went out to the high street to pick up a scone from my favorite Hampstead bakery, Gail’s. As I walked, I passed by a dog tied to a solid wood bench outside Starbucks. I was tempted to pet the dog, but the loose muzzle around its nose was a bit of a deterrent.

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Londoners love to talk about the weather. One thing I’ve learned since I’ve been here is that the best way to strike up a conversation with a stranger is to talk about the rain, hail, fog, snow or other inclement precipitation that has plagued the city that day. Much as people like to discuss how the climate is ever-changing, the depressing reality is that the weather in London is always abysmal.

That is, it was until yesterday. Something happened yesterday that Londoners weren’t quite sure what to make of. A star, known to humans in other parts of the world as the “sun”, appeared out of nowhere and precipitated an obscure natural phenomenon the meteorologists told us to call “warm weather.”

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My boyfriend and I moved into our flat in Hampstead a few months ago, and have spent a lot of time moving in, decorating, and making the place feel like home. We hung pictures, bought furniture, started planting our garden, and couldn’t wait to have our first summer BBQ.

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