Thanksgiving in review.

Early last week, British Will, Thomas (fellow intern, also British) and I had very little work to do, so they were at my desk and we were just browsing the internet (boss people were away at a meeting).  I came to an article about the turkey pardoning tradition in America (the names of the turkeys this year were Liberty and Peace…what creative school children picked those out?  They really dropped the ball.  Naming turkeys could be a lot of fun.  Mr. Big Stuff?  Giblets is kind of cute.  Erin Marie isn’t bad either.)  Thomas said, “So Claire, what is Thanksgiving all about?”  He wasn’t even trying to be funny—he was actually asking in earnest.  As I explained the story of the Pilgrims and Squanto and the first Thanksgiving feast, I half expected kindergarten children to emerge at any time, wearing construction paper feathers and those pillow case tunics with beads on the ends.  After the story, Thomas asked, “So, the Pilgrims...is that, like, Thomas Jefferson and all them?” ………….Really, Thomas?  British people must have just blocked that entire period of history from their memory.  I explained to Thomas that his people persecuted the Pilgrims, so they went to America to set up a shining city upon a hill and America has been better than Britain ever since.

Thanksgiving Day turned out pretty well.  We had office ice-skating at the Somerset House after work.  It was very pretty and lots of fun.  The architects-on-skates concept is pretty hilarious. 

Earlier that day at work, Nicolas (guy from Cyprus who sits across from me.  He is a great big teddy bear) sent me an email to invite me to a Thanksgiving dinner that these American people were putting on.  It sounded like a nice meet-and-greet of Americans in London and it was close to where I live, so I said I’d go.  It turned out to be a group of about seven American friends celebrating Thanksgiving together and they were pretty surprised to see us there.  (It turns out that Nicolas peripherally knew only one of the girls—luckily she was the host).  When we walked in the door, they all just stared.  All the girls were wearing cute little holiday dresses (they had clearly been planning this for a while) and there I was in my jeans, pilly brown sweater, and smelly ice skating socks.  Nicolas whispered to me, “It’s been a while since I’ve crashed a party like this.”  I was like, “I’ve never done this before.”  But after the initial awkwardness, it was fine.  They were a pretty yuppie group. At one point in the dinner, they were all talking about retirement funds and pension plans and investing their money, and I thought to myself, “Who are these people?”  And then I remembered that I had no idea who they were, because I was at a Thanksgiving dinner I wasn’t invited to, hosted by people I’d never met.  But the food was great, the wine was wine, and there was pie for dessert, so I enjoyed it. 

When I got home, I skyped in to Massachusetts family Thanksgiving.  They hooked the computer up to the TV so I was on the big screen.  It was definitely one of the best skype dates I’ve ever had.  I took them all on the tour of my apartment, and Ashley said it sounded like a ton of people on a roller coaster.  Before we ended the call, all the cousins gathered around the TV for a picture.  I haven’t seen it yet, but apparently it looks like I’m actually there with the group—I just have a gigantic head and shoulders.

UK Thanksgiving turned out better than I expected it to be, but it still can’t compare to Thanksgiving at home.  I’ll be back next year!

Our apartment is an icebox.

Our heating system is broken.  A few days ago, I noticed this black pipe outside our apartment had been ripped off the wall and was being used to prop the stairwell door open.  (Thank you, neighbors.)  It turns out that this somehow affected our water heater in such a way that it can no longer heat water for our radiators.  So it’s been pretty chilly the past couple nights.  Luckily we have a reserve hot water tank upstairs, so we can still take hot baths, which is what I did for the last hour.  Supposedly it will get fixed on Monday!  Fingers crossed.

Happy belated Thanksgiving to you all.  I will post more about my UK Thanksgiving later.  Right now, I am going to get warm by drying my hair.  Very glad I bought that hair dryer. 

Rome in a day (or two).

(This is a very long post.)

Several weeks ago, I was feeling sorry for myself about not going home for Thanksgiving.  To make myself feel better, I decided to take a trip.  I browsed cheap flights, found one that was going to Rome, and booked it.  I’m spontaneous (Colin Firth, Mamma Mia).  So I went to Rome this weekend. 

When I booked the flight, I was in the mindset of maximizing the time in Rome without taking a day off from work.  I booked the earliest flight on Saturday, which was at 6:00 am from Stansted.  I didn’t really consider what time this would require me to leave my apartment—2:30 am.  So that was pretty dumb.  But I was committed.  At 2:30, I set out on my journey.   My transportation plan, which I successfully navigated: hop on night bus by my apartment, switch to different night bus, catch 3:30 Easy Bus to Stansted (with two minutes to spare).  If I had been watching this all as a scene in a movie, this might have been pretty hilarious.  I was probably the only sober person on either of the night buses (surprise!).  On the second night bus, a guy two rows in front of me vom-ed, while a drunk couple behind me almost came to blows in a heated argument in a language I could not understand.  On the Easy Bus, our driver announced that it was his last day in this terrible job, and he proceeded to blast love ballads for the entire hour-and-forty-five-minute ride.  We got some nice Wind Beneath My Wings, (Everything I Do) I Do It For You, the real song that the Christmas song from Love Actually is based on, and, when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Sometimes When We Touch, from that old Geico commercial.  But because this wasn’t a movie, but rather my real life at 3:30 in the morning, I wasn’t completely amused by the night bus drunkies or the British version of Delilah radio.  Too bad for me.  Share my pain: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVf940pO5ME

Easy Bus finally arrived at Stansted, and I made my flight with time to spare.  Take that, British Will.  (He doubted me.)  I passed out on the plane, but happened to wake up just as we were flying over the Alps.  I was pleased with that timing.

Climb everyyyy mountainnnnn.

We landed in Rome and I took yet another bus into the city.  By 10:30, I had finally arrived and was ready to begin my day (pretend I hadn’t already done that 8 and a half hours before).  Saturday was mainly an exercise in church hopping, running around Rome like a crazy, and general nerding out over art and architecture.  (Let’s not forget that I almost double majored in art history.)  There was much to see, and I ran around to the things I figured people wouldn’t want me to drag them to when we return to Rome together.  (I threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, so I am guaranteed another visit.)  So you all should be grateful—we can do the things you want to do when we go back.

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane.  One of my favorite buildings of all timeeeeee.

Sant'Ignazio.  The ceiling is a flat fresco.  So is the dome.  Crazy, right??????

San Luigi dei Francesi.  I went for the...

...Caravaggio masterpieces!!!  FREAK OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.  I love taking the same pictures that were slides in art history classes.  Check out the real light coming from the window versus the light coming in the window in the painting.  ON PURPOSE.

That evening, I took the train out to a little town called Frascati to meet up with the family I was staying with for the night.  (I found them through Couch Surfing.  Hey Erin, I didn’t get murdered. :)  The family was a young couple, Marta and Olivier, their 22 month old, Charlotte, their dog Betty, and their cat Lala.  They were the cutest and they were so, so good to me.  Marta had cooked up a storm—sausage-stuffed chicken for the first course (from Marta’s cousin the butcher), broccoli dish for the second course, lots of cheese for the third course (Olivier is French), and delicious apple pie for dessert (and breakfast the next morning).  I had my very own room in their apartment, with a great view out the window.  I was absolutely exhausted, and slept for 11 hours (10:00 to 9:00).  It was perfect.

The view.

The next morning, after saying my goodbyes to Marta, Olivier, Charlotte, and Betty (Betty the dog and I got along really well.  She almost never left me.  I did not say goodbye to Lala the cat.  We were not as good friends.), I went to catch the train back to Rome.  However, because of a few unfortunate circumstances (the station was closed, I couldn’t buy a ticket, I couldn’t speak Italian, I really hadn’t left enough time to get to the station anyways, etc), I missed the 10:30 train.  The next one wasn’t for another 2 hours, so I decided to wander around Frascati for a while (not that I had much other choice) (I could have gone back to Marta and Olivier, but I was too embarrassed).  I popped in a few more churches, caught the end of Mass.  After that, I went into a little restaurant for some pizza.  The lady at the counter didn’t speak English.  Apparently she was also unafraid to blatantly take advantage of American tourists.  My pizza and drink cost 3.80 euros.  I handed her a 50 note, because that was all I had (the ATM made me take out a minimum of 50 euros and I really needed cash).  She rolled her eyes, and handed me my change: 36.20.  I don’t think she expected me to count it.  I looked at her, shook my held, held up the change and said, “Sorry, this isn’t enough.”  She looked at me with a face that said, “What are you gonna do about it?”  Large, stubborn Italian woman, I thought, you will not intimidate me.  I felt myself get obnoxious and do that speak-louder thing Americans do when people don’t understand their language.  “I GAVE YOU A FIFTY, FIVE ZERO.  I NEED TEN MORE EUROS.” while waving my change.  “No, no, no, no, no,” she said.  She took my change and started counting very loudly and slowly in Italian, as if I were dumb and the one whose math was mistaken.  Her coworker came to the counter from the kitchen to see the commotion.  When she saw what was going on, she stood there and laughed.  I wanted to grab a pen and do the subtraction right there for them, but the first lady had already begun to serve the next customer.  I stood there and looked at her with eyes that said, “Are you really going to rob me of 10 euros right in front of my face?”  She looked back at me triumphantly with eyes that said, “Yes,” and then went back into the kitchen.  It had been enough of a scene and I wasn’t going to win, so I left with my 13.80 euro pizza.  It was good, but not that good.  

With only small difficulties this time, I made the next train to Rome.  I took the Metro to Vatican City and went to St. Peter’s Basilica.  It is just humungous.  After that, I went back to the area around the Spanish Steps and did my part to help the Italian economy by doing some Christmas shopping.

By then, it was about time to head back to the airport.  To flash back briefly to the day I booked my plane tickets, Dillon had gchatted me, “Claire, don’t go to Italy.”  (The whole Amanda Knox case was in the news at that time.)  I told him that I had, in fact, just booked tickets to Rome, but would try my best not to get implicated in any murders.  This was in the back of my mind the entire weekend, but I wasn’t really worried about the possibility of spending a few years in Italian prison until my bus ride back to Ciampino airport.  Simply put, I wanted to murder the two American girls who sat next to me.  They did not shut up once and they were just terrible.  I could write a whole blog post, recording their conversation and how terrible it was.  Maybe I will, because this post is already way too long.  I’ll do that at some point.  You’ll enjoy it.  And you won’t believe it.  Because I could hardly believe it, and I was sitting right next to them.

Just one more little story, I promise.  The flight back to the UK was fine, but the line at customs took FOREVER.  Luckily I got to go to the not-UK-or-EU citizens line, which was much shorter.  It still took an hour and a half.  When I was finally towards the front of the line, I noticed this guy at one of the customs agents’ desks.  Something had clearly gone wrong and he was not being allowed into the country.  He stormed away from the agent, back towards us, took off his backpack, and flung it (with some serious force) at the people in line.  Luckily it hit the railing and not people.  In America, that dude would have been arrested in a half a second.  But in the UK, he got some great schoolteacher discipline action.  The customs agent marched over to him and said, “Excuse me, sir, was that necessary?  You will apologize to those people.”  He mumbled an “I’m sorry.”  But the lady was not satisfied, “YOU WILL TURN AROUND AND FACE THEM AND APOLOGIZE.”  So he did.  Then she just left him there, sitting in a chair.  I was like…is no one going to watch this unstable man?  Then another airport guy came over and said to him, “You are accused of throwing a backpack.”  The accused started to talk back to him.  “DO NOT SPEAK.  DO. NOT. SPEAK.  YOU ARE ACCUSED OF THROWING A BACKPACK.  YOU WILL SIT IN THIS CHAIR UNTIL THIS ENTIRE HALL IS CLEARED.  THEN YOU WILL BE SEEN.”  Which was really unfortunate for that guy, because he had probably already waited an hour and a half, and the line had gotten even longer.  I bet he doesn’t throw his backpack next time he’s refused entry to a country.

Anyways, I got through customs just fine, took my three buses back to my apartment, and walked in my door 48 hours after I had walked out.  I think that was the first and last time I fly in and out of Stansted on back-to-back days.  Too much of an exhausting hassle.  But, the weekend was great and I’m glad I went.

Maureen's new boyfriend.

The curse of British teeth, part II.

Last night I had a dream that two of my teeth fell out and a third one was loose.  One of the teeth had fallen out a long time ago and I kept it in a container of green eye shadow powder.  This container also served as my prosthetic tooth (still trying to figure out how that worked).  Don’t worry, I said to Will, I don’t use that eye shadow.  After the second tooth fell out, I visited the dentist, who was a jolly tooth-fairy sort of character.  She asked me why my teeth were falling out, and I supposed it was because I had worn my retainer, which imposed a dangerous level of stress on my teeth.  She nodded sympathetically.  I was very happy to have all my teeth when I woke up this morning.  The dream just felt so real.

I also dreamed that British Will found my blog.  Embarrassing.  This dream also seemed very real, so when I got up, I checked to see if I had any blog views from the UK (yes, I can tell what countries my viewers are from) (also which browsers and operating systems they are using).  There were no UK views at the time, but I just checked and there have since been THREE UK VIEWS.  Terrifying.  British Will, are you there?  As far as I was aware, Ashley and I were the only two people in this country who know of this blog.  She just confirmed that it was not her and Blogger doesn’t count my views…so…MYSTERY VIEWER, REVEAL YOURSELF.  Or maybe don’t.  

The curse of British teeth.

I regret to report that I believe I am developing British teeth.  You’ve probably heard of the “British people have bad teeth” phenomenon, but did you know that one could develop the condition simply by living in the UK?  I did not know this.  I was blissfully unaware.  I thought I could neglect my retainer just like I could in America.  Sure, it would hurt a little bit the first time I popped it in after a while of not wearing it, but it would fit.  NOT HERE.  Last night, while I pondered the terrible teeth of a British coworker (there must be about a quarter inch of space on either side of every tooth in his mouth...he just can’t have the same number of teeth that I do), I realized I hadn’t worn my retainer since Gum Graft II (an unfortunate procedure I had in late July).  I went to pop it in, but IT DID NOT FIT ON MY TEETH.  My teeth have moved too much.  I could kind of get it half on, but it hurt like hell.  I tried to sleep with it that way, hoping my teeth would move enough so I could get it all the way on eventually, but I woke up in the middle of the night with the retainer in my hand.  I’m going to try again tonight.  I will not come home with British teeth.

(I actually haven’t been overwhelmed by the number of people here with bad teeth.  But when I do find such people, I automatically think, “well that makes sense, you’re British.”  I can’t help it.  Sorry, British people.  Stereotypes are tough.  I know—I’m from Jersey.)

It's been a while.

Greetings, loved ones.  I’m sure all you members of my vast and diverse readership have been losing sleep since November 3^rd, wondering what glorious adventures I’ve been up to and missing my ever insightful commentary.  Fear not, I have returned.  Rather than write a book about all that has happened since my last post, I will list a series of small updates:

The day before my mom and Erin and Colleen arrived, I took a tumble down the stairs in our apartment.  Elbows and ego still bruised.  But my feet are large and our stairs are small—it was only a matter of time.

There was a white feather in the carton of eggs that I bought.  Ashley and I screamed when we saw it.  She was like, “DO YOU NOT CHECK THE EGGS BEFORE YOU BUY THEM??”  Apparently I missed that grocery-buying lesson.

My Mommy came all the way to London to change the sheets on my bed and help me clean up my room.  She is the best.

Erin brought me Jif.  Rejoice!

I stayed with my mom and Erin and Colleen in their hotel.  I took my first shower in months (not as gross as it sounds—our apartment only has a tub, so we are confined to taking baths).  I also blow-dried my hair for the first time in months.  I should really go buy a hair dryer.

This is Erin’s graceful descent from one of the lions at Trafalgar Square.

Nice socks.

This is Erin and I reenacting a scene from the royal wedding at Westminster Abbey.  Obviously I am Pippa, the more attractive younger sister.

Nice bouquet.

I think we did a good job.

Yesterday was Remembrance Day, 11/11/11.  At 11:00, our office had a 2-minute “moment” of silence.  It was generally well observed, except for this American girl blabbing in the back room (I swear it wasn’t me) (and this girl’s voice is loud and irritating even when everyone else isn’t being silent).  People were kind of rolling their eyes.  Why must there always be someone to perpetuate the stereotype??

Yesterday was also this American guy’s last day at the office (he’s moving back to America!).  We all went out after work for goodbye drinks.  The first place had 2-for-1 cocktails, so I got Moscow Mules in honor of Becca being a general whiz at life.  British Will’s girlfriend met up with us.  Her name is Kate.  They are just too British.

My mom gave me an assignment to go shopping this weekend.  (I need to get a winter coat, hair dryer, etc.)  Thanks, Mom!  Just a heads-up, you might be getting a call from your friends at Capital One!

I can hear Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” coming from one of our neighbors’ apartments.  …There is almost too much to say about this.

It is visiting season.

Our flat feels pretty empty right now.  We have had a constant stream of visitors coming and going for the past two weeks.  Ashley’s friend Lance stayed with us the whole two weeks (he left Monday), Philip (hi Philip) was here the weekend before last, and Catherine and her friend Morgan were here this past weekend and left early yesterday morning.  It was really nice to see some familiar faces.  Plus, everyone came bearing delicious gifts from their adopted lands.  Philip brought us stroopwafel and stroopkoeken from Rotterdam—AMAZING waffle-ish cookies with caramel filling inside.  So good.  They did not last long at all.  Catherine and Morgan brought mantecados and bonbons from their little Spanish pueblo called Estepa.  Mantecados are a little difficult to describe—they are these addictive, crumbly shortbread balls that come in different flavors.  I’m trying to only have one a day (my treat at work), but it’s really difficult not to eat several in one go. 

Highlights from the visits include, but certainly are not limited to: being a good little architecture nerd with Philip and going to the OMA exhibition at the Barbican (it was really good and the Barbican is SWEET.  I could live there.), celebrating Ashley’s birthday with Lance (he had chicken cordon bleu all cooked and ready for us when we got home from work!  We also ate lots of cake from my favorite little bakery that is on the way to work.), and participating in London’s Halloween zombie pub crawl with Catherine, Morgan, and Ashley (Catherine went as zombie butcher, Morgan went as zombie Statue of Liberty, and Ashley and I were Pinky and the Brain.  We were going to be Pinky and the Brain zombies but we liked our costumes too much to zombify them.  Our zombie post rationalization for our costume was “Pinky and the brains brains brains brains.”  The zombies on the crawl were way more intense than we were, and they quickly smeared blood all over us because we were just too clean.)

The visiting continues on Friday when my mom, Erin, and Colleen come to London.  I cannot wait.  And they will come bearing gifts from America—primarily Jif.  And good news for Erin—the dog poop and pee in our stairwell (mentioned several posts ago) has become a fairly regular occurrence.  But, never fear.  We talked to our landlady (she is awesome) and she and her husband set the neighbors straight (I WISH I could have witnessed that).  When I got home from work, instead of having to cover my nose and mouth to shield from the stench, I enjoyed a fresh, bleachy, poop-free trip up the recently scrubbed stairs.  Just in time for the Queen of Clean’s visit this weekend!  

(Part of me is a little worried that our complaints will earn us our very own deposit of poop outside our front door...I could kind of see our neighbors doing that.)

Pinky and the Brain take a stand against poop.