The Royal Wedding

Everyone has been asking me about the Royal Wedding, and I can't blame them. Since the engagement was announced in October I have been 100% obsessed. I spent the past 7 months of my life thinking about ways I could befriend some member of the Royal entourage and get my invite to the event of the century. Of course my efforts were in vein, as I am nothing more than a "commoner". No famous relatives or bank accounts in Switzerland. I didn't go to a Scottish boarding school. I like to eat dinner in front of the TV watching Jersey Shore. And all my "jewels" were stolen in the robbery. So it goes without saying that the likes of me do not get invited to occasions such as this. But at the end of the day, I'm actually okay with that and here's why...

By the time April rolled around I knew more about Will and Kate's respective families than my own. Did you know that the Middletons eat Sunday dinners at the Bucklebury Village Pub sometimes? Did you know that Princess Beatrice is the first woman in line for the throne (you remember the one with the pink satellite dish on her head, don't you)? Oh, and did you know that the Queen eats cereal everyday for breakfast - from a Tupperware container?! The rascal! 

In every which way, shape and form, "the firm" (the King's name for his clan) had become a part of all of our lives. Day after day we were exposed to up-to-the-minute news feeds, how-they-met documentaries and tell-all interviews. And for some reason I was enamored by it all… the love story, the wedding arrangements, the making of a Queen. I found myself in a frenzy trying to "keep up with the Windsors". 

The day of the Royal Wedding, I woke up feeling like it was my birthday. I made buckwheat pancakes with maple syrup, fixed a cup of tea and sat myself in front of the TV for 5 hours of matrimonial history. From moment one I was sucked into the vortex, anticipating every arrival and, to be honest, every outfit. 

But as I watched the guests arrive in their designated order - the D-listers, the celebs, the diplomats - no one in particular wowed me. Egg-dye was palatte of choice and space-aged fascinators took center stage. I felt like I was watching a Fashion Police Wedding Special of What Not To Wear. In my opinion there were two saving graces: Will, I must admit, look rather dapper in his scarlet Irish Guard colonel's uniform. Regardless of whether or not he earned his stripes, the vibrancy and regalness of his ensemble was a refreshing reprieve from the traditional black tux. My second favorite was Karen Gordon. I had to conduct an extensive google search to get the name of the woman on Earl Spencer's arm, but it was worth the shout out. In my opinion, she was one of the few who truly looked elegant and actually pulled off her over-sized hat. 

By the time it was Kate's turn to arrive, I was full of anticipation. No matter what everyone else wore, surely her dress would have us all squealing with joy. With all the mystery and allure surrounding the designer and the style, I couldn't fathom what she'd turn up in. A gown made of diamonds, dove feathers, angel wings? I was bursting with excitement as she rode from the The Goring Hotel to the Abbey. 

When the moment arrived and she stepped out of her Rolls-Royce, I was completely and utterly… disappointed! Don't get me wrong, her dress was very nice, but I never expected Kate to show up in a dress that was nothing more than "nice".  I mean, after all the hype I half expected her dress to launch into a fireworks to display and sing God Save the Queen in D-minor. And I know Kate's hair is her thing, but would it have killed her to try an updo? 

That's when it hit me. I was spending an exorbitant amount of time immortalizing people who are simply people. The truth is they looked like any other couple, because yes, they are just a couple. Just because they are future kings and queens doesn't mean they actually bleed blue. It's so easy to forget that they are just like you and me, despite a castle of Crown Jewels and a palace to call home. I know you may disagree, but think about it: They have embarrassing family members (Kate's cocaine-snorting Uncle Gary), make regrettable decisions (Prince Harry's Halloween as Hitler) and get upstaged by their siblings (Pippa Middleton and the appreciate day being organized in honor of her royal hiney). Needless to say, once I came to terms with the fact that they aren't characters in a Disney movie and they aren't going to fly off to Neverland for their honeymoon, I was no longer interested. 

British Fever

In the end, revelations aside, I still had an amazing time. After the wedding, Josh and I took the tube to Piccadilly Circus, met with friends and toasted our "commonness" with half-price drinks. And for that I can say, it was a very special day for this Londoner!

I Got My Invite... or maybe it's just a Happy Hour ad!

Highway Robbery

Hello Loyal Blog Readers! I'm sorry it's been so long since my last entry. You might be wondering where we've been. Questioning what sorts of English shenanigans we've been up to. I'd like to say Josh and I have been involved with London life, ya know, striking against the budget cuts, protesting the Libyan government, sitting outside Buckingham Palace hoping an invite might drop out of the window. Alas, I have no idea about that stuff. I don't even know who's designed Kate's wedding dress! I'm shamefully out of the loop (and haven't watched Super Nanny USA in weeks), and it's basically because I got a J-O-B. No exotic, adventurous explanation here. I got a job, got busy, and my Life as a Londoner became just Life. 

The good news is that we've acclimated enough to say that life in London feels fairly routine. We get up, go to work, run at the gym (sometimes), make dinner, leave the dishes in the sink and catch an hour of Two and a Half Men before falling into the deepest realm of REM sleep humanly possible. Not exactly the most exciting schedule, but I guess it means that we've made it. On March 25th we hit our 6-month mark here and it officially punctuated the day we went from being "foreigners" to "locals". We no longer need a map to get to the grocery store; we accept the likelihood that a transit strike, signal failure or planned engineering work will screw up our commute; and we know that when a menu boosts pancakes we're likely to get a short stack of crepes. I even find us saying things like "let's take the lift" and "cheers" in place of thank you... 

Then came the robbery! And with that horrific act of injustice, I instantly felt like I had been transported back in time. Back to those first few months of chaos and calamity. To the days when Starbucks was the only place with a functioning Internet and IKEA was truly a 4-letter word. While Josh thinks the robbery was our final rite of passage (get robbed, get respect), I've come to think there's some sort of English Poltergeist trying to scare us into going back home. 

But after the instantaneously feeling of dread and despair, I actually felt rather calm in a rather short period of time. Maybe it was the Gemini in me or maybe it was as if all the crazy experiences we had in the first 6 months trained us to deal with just about anything. Perhaps everything we'd been through was just practice for the big game. I've come to expect the unexpected and accept the unacceptable. As they say, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Not to dwell on the details, but for the sake of the blog, here's how it went down: I was at work. It was 6:10pm. The sun was still casting a strong stream of light through the city - the best part about a "spring ahead" time change. I'd forgotten to put my phone on silent, so when my ringer went off I immediately dropped what I was doing to mute it. Of course I had to rummage through my purse first, spilling out lipsticks and receipts and mixed currency until I found it buried underneath my arsenal of supplies. In the process of paralyzing the volume I also managed to hang up on Josh, who I noticed had called and texted me several times in a fifteen-minute period of time. I took a moment to ponder why he was so desperate to speak with me (I guess I really am that cool)… then my phone rang again and I answered it before anyone in the office located the source of the disturbance. 

"Josh?" I whispered in a low raspy voice. To be clear, it wasn't a sexy, phone-operator rasp, but the kind of hushed tone you use when you have your head under your desk so no one knows you're on your cell phone taking a personal call. "I'm still at work. What's up?" I expected him to ask what we were doing for dinner or tell me that he missed me so bad it hurt (well, maybe not in those exact words). Instead he said, "Did you hide the computer?" Of course I didn't hide the computer! I left the computer exactly where I always do: in the living room on the couch near the radiator - right where one would expect to find an expensive piece of modern machinery. To that he replied, "Oh, well, don't panic... It seems like the laptop is the only thing missing and nothing's messed up, but I think we've robbed." Though it wasn't so much as a "thought" as a reality. The busted door frame and crowbar dent were evidence that I wasn't playing hide-n-seek with our Mac Book Pro and we had officially been burglarized.  

When I walked in I hugged Josh and then went about accessing the damage. Looking through as much of my things as I could without actually touching anything. The police had informed us to sort of float about and use our magical powers to open draws and such until they were able to dust for fingerprints. 

The assessment yielded the following positive results: The TV was still in place (thank God), the PC was hooked up and our new plants were shaken but unharmed. The place was indeed a mess, but that was our fault. I was actually kind of worried the police would walk in and think the bulgars threw our clothes around and left toast crumbs in the hallway so they could easily find their way out. But they didn't seem concerned by the mess and, unless I'm being paranoid, I really don't think they were concerned about any of it. They didn't so much as shake our hands, give us their names or extend an apology. It even occurred to me that they might be the robbers! I've seen Home Alone. A fake badge, a couple of walkie talkies and you're a cop. 

The next day the SOCO man arrived, aka is the Scene of Crime Officer. On a side note, I think SOCO sounds like the name of puppeteering school that teaches people how to entertain with hosiery. "CSI" is way cooler. Anyway, he came and dusted for prints and found none. This surprised me because he never took our prints nor did he take anyone else's who had been in our flat. How did he know that the prints he found didn't belong to the robber? It was all smoke and mirrors as far as I was concerned. I knew, as well as the police, that the odds of cracking the case was as great as our odds of getting a FedEx package. 

And that was that. Within 48 hours life went back to normal. I didn't (and don't) feel scared. I'm not mourning over my things. And I'm genuinely happy that no one got hurt. In fact, I find it rather ironic that when we first moved in I complained via blog that we had way too much stuff - and one too many hats - anyway. So maybe on some level this was the universe's way of sorting out the clutter and letting me know it reads my blog... and if the universe is reading your blog, you'd better write something. 

Bonne Année

Happy New Year folks, friends and all eight of my beautiful followers! I hope the start of 2011 has you feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to tackle your resolutions. I originally resolved not make any this year. Not because I’m perfect and feel there’s nothing I could do to change, but because I find it hard to stick to something once I’ve decided to do it. Like when you buy a gym membership then never go back. But after a little escapade that followed a somewhat “challenging” trip to Paris (yes, I used the words challenging and Paris in the same sentence) I realized there was a virtue I could resolve to focus on this year. Appreciation! Here’s what led to the epiphany…

In case you’re wondering, Bonne Année means “Happy New Year” in French. I learned that last weekend when Josh and I took an impromptu trip to Paris. We didn’t quite make it in time to ring in 2011; in fact, we almost didn’t make it at all. With two days to go before the Big Countdown, we booked tickets to Paris on the last train of 2010. A nagging part of my brain babbled about the extravagance of it all. We’d only just returned from our trip to Edinburgh. Who did we think we were, the Hiltons? I listened earnestly, and then told that little nag to sit down and shut up! Paris is Paris and if your husband calls and says, “Hey, wanna go to Paris for the weekend?” you say, “Yes, yes I do!”

Tickled with glee I did everything I could to prepare. I packed, cleaned the fridge, emptied the trash, washed and folded two loads of laundry, dusted and rotated the coach cushions. You’d think I was awaiting the arrival of the Queen. Before I left I did the usual check: wallet, keys, money, phone. I even brought the laptop fully charged and two DVDs, along with a Madeleine Wickham novel and my Iphone updated with three new CDs. All this for a two-and-a-half-hour train ride and two-night stay. I had everything I needed and more… save for one, teensy, tiny, minute belonging—my passport!

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my little blue book until we were going through bag check 15 minutes before the train was scheduled to depart. I panicked and pleaded with security, tumbling all of my personal information onto the counter top—my license, social security card, credit cards. Not only was I willing to offer myself for a full cavity search, but I was also prepared to make a sizable donation to his personal bank account. Blah, blah, blah, French police, blah, blah, blah, out of our hands, blah, blah, blah, always bring your passport when traveling to another country. Long and short, he was not letting me on that train.

The gentleman at the ticket counter took mercy on our sad souls and my welling eyes and switched our tickets for the following morning. So we went home, popped a bottle of Veuve and watched the Thames fireworks from our flat. All in all, it wasn’t a bad New Years Eve. I actually would’ve been perfectly content had I not completely blown our chance of ringing in 2011 beside the Eiffel Tower in my new blue dress. C'est la vie.

Big Ben at Midnight (via the TV)

Fireworks from our Flat

We went to bed excited that the trip was still upon us. To be extra safe we both set our Iphones for a 5:30am wake-up call. We wouldn’t want to miss another train. Haha! Famous last words! Let’s just say I wasn’t laughing when I lazily rolled over to check the time and saw that it was 6:47am. I thought I was in the Twilight Zone. What time is it? What day is it? Don’t we have to be somewhere in 15 minutes? Didn’t we both set alarms? With realization came one of those Home Alone moments, where we jumped out of bed, raised our hands in the air and said, “We slept in”. Leave it to the Apple Iphone to be a pioneer of digital technology, but to have an annual New Year’s Day alarm clock glitch.

Surprisingly, we made it to the station in the nick of time. Sloppy hair, unshaven, unshowered, with rolling suitcases and shoes in a plastic bag, I’m sure we looked more like vagrants than world travelers. But the important thing was that we made it on the train and arrived in Paris.

Chocolates at the Christmas Market

We had a lovely afternoon moseying along the Champs-Élysées, underneath the Eiffel Tower and past the Christmas Market. It was the sweetest reward one could ask for. We stopped for lunch at a quaint bistro, sharing a croque-madame and meat-and-cheese platter while the bartender poured us a friendly house red. Our lack of plans allowed us to linger and talk, and watch the rowdy group of French-folk at the neighboring table slosh their champagne and merrily sing about something I couldn’t understand.

Eiffel Tower

Trying to get a pic in front of the Eiffel Tower

Croque-Madame 

Meat-and-Cheese Platter

French Waiter

The evening proved to be just as magical as we strolled by the Moulin Rouge and over to Montmartre. We walked as the rain sprinkled our heads and cold nipped at our feet, pointing out the adorable cafes and artfully shaped breads, wrought-iron balconies set against cream-colored buildings and sparkling views of the city. 

The Square at Montmartre

Moulin Rouge

Eventually we ended up at a little corner restaurant. Its façade, decorated with a tangle of green vines, looked like something out of a fairly tale. It was all going so well and we were finally able to put the past debacles aside with a laugh. That is until Josh’s thin esophagus decided to act up. No, that’s not a typo, Josh has a thin esophagus, which means it’s exactly as it sounds—it’s thinner than it should be. When he eats too fast or eats foods that are too rich, the aforementioned food painfully gets stuck in the esophageal pipe. It’s usually nothing more than a glitch in his system, so to speak. Like the Iphone, it quickly fixes itself and goes back to normal. But in this case, also like the Iphone, it wasn’t going away without causing a scene.

After about 20 minutes of looking into Josh’s crimson face, I came to the conclusion that we might be taking our first trip to a Parisian emergency room. Worried, I asked what I could do to help. I offered to kick him in the duodenum to force his stomach open, but aside from making him laugh it really didn’t prove to be a viable solution. Several times the wait staff popped by to make sure Josh was okay and didn’t need a Heimlich expert. I’m sure they were dying for us to leave, as we were probably scaring the customers. On the way out, I thought about telling the girl next to me to stay away from the filet. Just a little esophagus joke!

Without help from the paramedics, the food eventually unclogged and we left the restaurant. Josh hadn’t really eaten much and I didn’t have a French pastry, but before an anvil fell on our heads or a meteorite dropped from the sky, we thought it best that we go back to the hotel. Josh curled into bed and passed out. I, still raring to go, settled in with a bag of peanut M&M’s and a mini-bar bottle of red wine.

Our Hotel

As I lay in bed with my novel and my nightcap, I realized that with everything that had gone wrong, there was still nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Even though the trip wasn’t a total success—and I complained and cursed and cried at times—we managed to have our moments of fun. We’re getting out there and seeing the world, and that’s what’s important. While our experiences may not always be perfect, they’re still experiences. I feel blessed to even have this opportunity. And as I think about all that’s happened and changed since January 2010—graduating from the Natural Gourmet, changing my career, moving to London, exploring Europe—I can honestly say that life, in and of itself, is something to appreciate. So in closing I offer these resolutions: appreciate life, live each day to the fullest and don’t forget your passport!