Nicole V. The Royal Mail (Round 1)

There comes a time in every person’s life, when the gloves come off. After months, days, maybe even years of suppressed anger and built-up tension, you finally decide that enough is enough. Conjuring up images of Tom Petty you say to yourself, “I won’t back down!”

My day of reckoning came earlier this week. My opponent: the Royal Mail. Not one person in particular, but Her Majesty’s Postal System—that’s right, the entire system (that includes you, too, FedEx)! You may wonder how, in four short months, I managed to seek the demise of an entire sector of the British service community. I can tell you it wasn’t easy, but it’s a battle I’ve been fighting since Thanksgiving Day.

Sometime late November I got the sense that my mom had sent us something. She was dropping very subtle hints, such as “Did you get anything in the mail today?” and “Are you sure you didn’t get anything from FedEx?” Each time I answered, “No.” Aside from a ton of repetitive bills filling us in on all stages of the payment process (even though we pay online) we hadn’t received anything of note.

Finally, on Thanksgiving Day, my mom had to share the big surprise. She’d sent us homemade cookies via overnight FedEx—a special delivery that came with a $100 price tag! The US FedEx worker not only helped her package the cookies, but also assured her that spending $100 on cookies was a justified act of love (I think he works on commission). He had also assured her they would arrive the day before Thanksgiving, already making them two days late. As it was, we didn’t have the cookies or even a note citing an attempted delivery. It was a perplexing mystery I couldn’t solve alone; so I called upon my trusted sidekick Josh Watson and opened the Case of the Missing Cookies.

After some serious sleuthing, we discovered that FedEx had come several times, but our buzzer was dead as a doornail (no pun intended). But if FedEx had come, where was the note? Why couldn’t we find a “We Were Here” message or sign that anyone had tried to deliver a package? Could it be that there was a Note Thief on the loose?

Before I jumped to conclusions and hired Scooby Doo, I called FedEx and asked if a note was left and if not, why? The FedEx rep responded with the following question: “What color is your door?” The question threw me completely off guard and I had no choice but to stammer in response. I wondered if this was a new self-help scheme—the follow up to What Color Is Your Parachute? Perhaps she was taking a few psychology classes and this was her conflict-resolution method.

Sensing my hesitation and confusion, she asked more specifically if my door was gray. Gray sounded right, so I said as much. To this she said, “That’s why we didn’t leave a note. You have a gray door and we can’t leave notes on gray doors—it’s the law.” Was this woman serious? What did she expect me to say to the most ludicrous excuse I’d ever heard in my life? Oh, okay, I see. We have a gray door, so we can’t receive packages. That clears everything up for me! Thanks!

My head was whirling and I was unable to regain composure. If this “law” is real and my buzzer is broken and my package is floating around in a delivery truck, how on Earth do I get my hands on these cookies? I felt like Cookie Monster and envisioned myself raging through London yelling, “Me want cookie!” Those were my treats and, by God, I was determined to get them.

I made another call to FedEx and asked if the driver could please phone me the next time he tried to redeliver. They were aware of my situation and seemed eager to oblige. And guess what? The following morning I actually got a call. A call to say the driver had just come by, but I didn’t answer the door so he left. I held my head in my hands and begged for divine intervention. I felt like reaching through the phone and shouting, “Didn’t I tell you my buzzer was broken?! Isn’t that the reason I asked for the driver to call in the first place?! Do you have a cognitive issue I should know about?!”

Of course I didn’t say any of that. I rationally re-explained my situation for the umpteenth time, trying in vain to remain calm. Desperate to get off the phone with the Cookie Lunatic, the rep assured me that he’d send the driver back in an hour. Two and a half hours later he still hadn’t come and I finally decided to throw in the towel. I’d gone 12 Rounds, fought the good fight, and it was time to raise the white flag. I wasn’t getting those cookies and I had to accept the fact that I’d been defeated.

I left our flat and didn’t return for several hours. I ran a few errands and worked on decreasing my spiked blood pressure. When I returned, I checked the mail (just for good measure) and started to take off my coat. That’s when the most remarkable thing happened—my phone rang. It was a FedEx driver claiming he was at my door! I couldn’t believe the timing of it all. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. He had actually come and he had brought the cookies. It was, by this point, a Christmas Miracle!

After a week of detective work we closed the case, ate the cookies and celebrated our victory—and, in usual fashion, we let out guard down just a bit too soon. Around the time the last cookie had been eaten and all was forgotten, we received a letter in the mail from FedEx. I actually thought it might have been an apology note, a refund or maybe even a gift card toward future deliveries. I excitedly opened the letter to find… a BILL! We owed the British government 30 pounds (re: $45) in taxes for enjoying US-produced cookies in the UK. To review, my mom paid $100 for overnight shipping, yet the cookies weren’t delivered for a week and now I, the recipient, had to pay taxes. I wanted to shout, “No taxation without representation!” and spill tea and scones into the Thames. As therapeutic as that would’ve been, I couldn’t risk getting deported. So I kept my tea in the cabinet, paid the bill, cursed the system and banned all parcel delivery going forward.  

Let’s just say avoiding deliveries for a period of two years didn’t turn out to be a viable solution. Within a month I once again found myself at the mercy of the Royal Mail. My opponent was taunting me, begging me for a rematch, and I accepted. In the words of Rocky Balboa, “Going in one more round when you don't think you can—that's what makes all the difference in your life.” 

To be continued…

An Evening at the Theater (or is it Theatre?)

Josh and I have officially proclaimed the London movie experience “The Best in the World”—a very coveted and sought-after honor. We came to this conclusion last Wednesday when we decided that the incessant rain and darkness was becoming far too depressing and we needed to get out. Among the movies playing, we chose to see 127 Hours (no spoilers here) at the Rich Mix Cinema. It was between that or The King’s Speech, which is based on the true story of King George VI of Britain who struggled to overcome his public speaking problem/speech impediment during World War II. While intrigued, I think we’ll wait for that to come out on DVD.

Now get this, when purchasing your tickets, online or at the theater, you get to pick your seats in advance! That means you can show up right before the movie starts and still avoid the front row. And when you meet up with friends, you don’t have to throw your coat over four chairs and yell, “seat’s taken!” like Elaine Benes every time someone comes near your territory. Why is this not a universal amenity?

Upon arrival (about 15 minutes before the show) we checked in at the ticket counter. Directly behind us was a cute little café that served fancy coffees and gelato, and in front of us were a set of doors, which lead to the theater. We walked to these magical doors, opened them and surprisingly found ourselves in the middle of a music venue complete with a full bar and jazz band. And this wasn’t your daddy’s jazz band. The music was an upbeat medley of top-40 pop tunes played on trumpets, trombones and saxophones. The crowd ranged from college students to thirty-somethings and beyond, who all sang, danced, lounged and laughed. Forget those over-priced arcade games and Slushies; this lobby was bursting with liveliness and the type of post-work freedom one longs for on a weeknight.

The best part is that even if you’re there to see a movie and not listen to the band, you can still partake in the bar festivities. Forgive me, but this bears repeating. You can actually take your drinks (beer, wine, Grasshopper) into the theater with you! Now is it me, or is that unheard of (at least in the States)? Maybe I just happened to miss all of these incredible bar-jazz band-theaters in my lifetime, but I’ve personally never been to one that was this cool before. I know it sounds very sixteen-year-old of me to be excited because I can throw a few back during a movie, but the whole evening was actually rather sophisticated. I felt so civilized listening to jazz tunes, and then taking a glass of wine to my reserved seats. Sure beats a bladder full of soda and neck strain!  

Call it a fluke, but people were actually quiet during the entire film to boot. Not once did I have to mentally shout at someone for talking or roll my eyes because the person next to me chewed popcorn like a cow. (Okay, so I’m a bit noise sensitive, but it’s easy for me to lose focus.) Anyway, that didn’t happen this time. At first I wasn’t exactly sure why I left feeling like I’d been to the spa, glowing with the contented pleasure of having just thoroughly enjoyed myself. Then it occurred to me that the movie experience was simply flawless. Comfortable, quiet, exciting with surprises at every turn—it was a cinematic adventure of for the avid or novice moviegoer!

So here’s my Londoner’s note: I highly recommend that after you take a spin through the Abbey, breeze around the Eye and sneak a peek at Parliament, you go to the movies! It may sound very blasé, but believe me it’s not.

A few more topics of note:

      1.)  The dueling Gemini twins in me were very busy this week. One working feverishly on the new Life As A Londoner Facebook page (please Like me!), while the other signed up for advanced nutrition training at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. I only noticed that both sides of my brain were working on different projects when I posted a FB message about school, and then an hour later posted another about my travel/blog page. Maybe one day, all sides of my psyche will learn to work together.

      

      2.)  Josh and I embarked on another European excursion this weekend. We visited our friend Risa, who was in Madrid on business. While we didn’t accompany her to any seminars on buying high and selling low (or is it the other way around?) we did have an indulgent afternoon in one of the greatest food markets in Europe, Mercado de San Miguel. And while our favorite Spanish restaurant, Casa Lucio, was booked for the entire day, we found another restaurant for dinner and plenty of fun things to do! More details and pictures on that trip to come…