On the Other Hand...

My last post, " A Foggy Decade" (10 March), might have led you to believe that I have nothing positive to say about life in London.

Let me say that a great deal of my negativity comes from not having my family and closest friends here with me. A British friend who lives in New York and longs to be back in London told me, "It's all about not having my family and friends here. I could be happy in Mongolia if I had them with me."

Another way to put it: Without your loved ones, even paradise can seem like hell.

That said, I want to comment on a few other aspects of life here. I'm going to keep it balanced by looking at them from both sides of the coin:

Waitrose is a busy upscale grocery on our high street. They have wonderful cheeses, breads, organic produce, fresh meat and fish counters, good selections of dairy products, teas, coffee, wines.

Despite the number of helpful employees, items can remain understocked for weeks. I've learned that you can ask for the product and it will be retrieved from the stock room, but "We just haven't re-stocked the shelves, Madam." Does this make good business sense? How much revenue have they lost by not having those items displayed where customers can see them?

On the other hand, they have an efficient on-line shopping and delivery service that serves its customers well.

Why is it that Brits often seem reluctant to politely point out that the food s/he has ordered is not cooked correctly or s/he has no hot water in a hotel room or the heel on the shoe s/he bought two days ago has fallen off so perhaps they could exchange them for a new pair? Why are they reluctant to bargain at a market where it is clearly expected that they do so? They would rather "not make a fuss."

On the other hand, for centuries Brits have been hardy pioneers in exploring other parts of the world and enduring hardships once they got there without complaint. Their population of young men was devastated by World War I, and World War II left them under constant bombardment by the Germans. They admirably endured it all and "got on with it."

John Lewis is an all-purpose department store roughly like Macy's. It is the place to go for towels, sheets, appliances, cookware, dishes, etc. Why are the identical duvet covers I bought nine years ago still on the shelves? Isn't it good business to change product choices every now and then? Doesn't introducing new merchandise stimulate business?

On the other hand, John Lewis has an excellent electronics department with all the latest items that cause us techno-envy. And I do like those duvet covers.

At the cinema, why is it necessary to give assigned seats? We have stood in long lines (queues) and waited while a cinema-goer studied the seating chart and went back and forth with the ticket-seller: "Do you think row five on the right is good, or would I be better off in row eight in the middle?" "Well, it's up to you, really, but I would choose row five." "Maybe that's too close to the screen. What are the other choices?"

At the cinemas where assigned seating is not given, we often find people waiting lemming-like in long ticket queues even though there is a machine in full view that allows you to purchase tickets on the spot.

On the other hand, the cinemas are usually comfortable and there is often a nice bar area for coffee or other treats. Some even allow you to take a glass of wine or beer to your seat. We are big fans of the Curzon Soho on Sunday mornings. We get cappuccinos and split a walnut cake at their buzzy bar before settling in to watch a sub-titled movie.

At a dinner party among some Brits you might find yourself being forcibly entertained by a few at the table who are determined to display just how clever, witty, quick and knowledgeable they are. They do this with glib, rapid-fire dialogue. We were once at a dinner party where two famous gentlemen, former Oxonians, decided to quote Monty Python at length to each other. They amused themselves to no end, doubling over with laughter, each trying to out-do the other. They were oblivious to the boredom this generated at the table.

On the other hand, some of our most memorable evenings have been spent listening to one of our oldest and dearest friends, a Brit, regaling us with tales of his days as an accused "Teddy boy" and his misadventures in the British army.

There are some things that I like about London without reservation:

Parks and gardens. No one does them better than the British. They have a knack for it that no one can beat. Regent's Park has to be one of the most beautiful in the world.

Marylebone High Street. A charming, village-like street where you can find everything you need, including good restaurants, art galleries, groceries, a fishmonger, the venerable Daunt bookstore, clothing stores, shoe shops, dry cleaners, a post office, newsagents, a fabulous cheese shop. You never need to leave it. I often don't.

Diversity. It is everywhere. There are streets in London where you feel like you are in the Middle East or India/Pakistan, China. You can choose among restaurants featuring cuisines from all over the world. In those restaurants, you most often find workers from Eastern Europe.

Museums and art galleries. They are terrific, accessible and often free.

Eurostar. You can go to Paris for the day.

Bookstores. Not the chains, but the unique ones: Hatchard, Daunt, Blackwell's in Oxford.

Italian Cultural Institute. Opening the door is like entering Italy. Some of my fondest memories in London took place there.

Black cabs. No one in the world has better taxis or drivers. The cars are as spacious as limousines, clean and well-maintained. The drivers know where they are going, and they should: They studied "The Knowledge" for two or three years, in which they are required to familiarize themselves with every street in the city. It is a proud profession and they make a good living.

The drivers can be chatty and often have a great sense of humor. I was once in a cab when a young woman approached and asked my driver if he knew where Princess Grace Hospital was. "Well, I do, but you don't now, do you?" he joked before giving her directions.

A simple wave of the hand and they pull over, roll down the front window and ask, "Where to, luv?"

As I settle into the back seat, I always think that maybe London isn't so bad after all. For a visit.

A Foggy Decade

I can remember it clearly: We were visiting London, as we often did while living in Vienna. We were walking in Mayfair on the way to Zen Central restaurant. The sound of my high heels clicking softly along the sidewalk is a part of the memory. "I like London," I announced enthusiastically, "I could live here."

A year later, I was. That was nine years ago.

It's been a troubled union. My Mediterranean genes just don't blend well with Anglo Saxon ones. I have been surprised at my response to a country I once loved (from afar).

When I was twelve, I thought I would marry Prince Charles and one day be Queen of England. I was serious about it in a way only a quirky, precocious twelve year old can be. I read biographies of all the English queens, and learned everything I could about Elizabeth II. After all, she would one day be my mother-in-law. I pored over books on antique English furniture so I could choose pieces for the many palaces I would one day inhabit. I played with my mother's hats because to be a queen of England, you had to learn how to wear them.

I worried that I only had one middle name. English royalty have at least three. I solved that problem by choosing two names for my confirmation. I knew that the religion of my mother, Roman Catholic, and my father, Syrian Orthodox, might pose a problem in Anglican England. I wrote a speech in which I would agree to let my little heirs be raised in the Church of England.

I looked for omens to ensure my fantasy would come true. If KJR-Seattle radio played "Barbara Ann" by the Beach Boys within the next thirty minutes, Charles and I would be a sure thing. Sometimes I'd have to add an extra fifteen minutes to an hour to get the results I wanted.

My fantasy died hard. As I grew older, I always kept an eye on Charles. My boyfriends never knew about their competition.

Things didn't turn out the way I had planned. That is fortunate for all concerned. But my interest in things British lingered.

Before I lived in London, I was excited to be invited to Buckingham Palace, where I met the woman who might have become Mum to me. I met her again at a tea party at the British Embassy in Washington. Like many Americans, I was intrigued with the whole royal family thing.

With that background, I expected to embrace London with open arms. I tried. Things just didn't click. The relationship hasn't worked.

"How can you not like London?" my friends who love it but have never lived here will ask.

Let me count the ways. (To my few but dear British friends: You are magnificent exceptions).

Brits are polite but not friendly. Many of them have been pals since boarding school days and have been in the same circles since then. They will expand the circle for celebrity types or deposed royals, but I don't bring those things to the table. I'm just another "Yank" from across the pond.

London is a man's town. A friend once told me, "Men don't look at you in London. I don't feel like a woman here." Side note: A quick trip on Eurostar to Paris, a woman's town, is restorative when feeling that way.

British workmanship is shoddy. I am comparing this to the Italians, who have a bad reputation but in our experience have been superb. They have an innate sense of good taste and judgment that would not allow them to hang a door upside down, read a blueprint backwards, or make thick caulk lines to hides flaws in everything.

The drinking culture is daunting. Every Friday afternoon the pubs start to fill up and stay that way through the weekend. The idea is to get as drunk as possible. Young women become loud and obnoxious and stumble through the streets in their high heels. Young men can turn violent in a nano-second. Both are often found vomiting in the streets late at night.

British teeth could use some work. It's getting better, but really, what's wrong with nice teeth? Why on earth does Camilla, wife of Charles, have teeth like that? For their part, Brits like to joke about "big, white American teeth." Georgia Jagger, daughter of Mick, likes her imperfect teeth: "I wouldn't want those perfect American teeth."

Sarcasm and put downs are a way fo life. Just watch the debates in the House of Commons for a few hours and you will see what I mean. Scan some of the newspapers. Read A.A. Gill. Read Christopher Hitchens (though he now claims US citizenship).

W.A.G.S. What are they? Wives and Girlfriends of footballers. They get an astounding amount of press here. To my guilty shame, I know about a few of them. I am mesmerized that a girlfriend of a footballer can become a celebrity and/or millionaire in her own right just because she is the girlfriend. Victoria Beckham, the anorexic, never-smiling wife of David Beckham, who once said that fashion was her passion and that she had never read a book, is queen of the WAGS.

Grubby pubs. Oh, okay, there are exceptions, but I've been in too many with the smell of spilled beer drying on the floor, multi-colored game machines blinking in the corner, the heavy smell of fried fish in the air, a loud football game on TV, men and women determined to get drunk.

There is a competitiveness with Americans that lends itself to liking to "take the mickey" out of us. Examples: "Why do you Yanks all have such anal handwriting?" "You lot look ridiculous in those trainers (athletic shoes) you all wear." "Do Americans know anything about wine?" "You Yanks don't really know how to cook anything but burgers, do you?" "Oh, do Yanks go to museums? I thought they just went shopping!"

The question that left me speechless took place the day after September 11, 2001. A young British woman cheerily asked me, "Oh, are you over it yet?"

I'm trying to be fair and look at things from all angles. There are things I like about London, but those will wait for the next post. Stay tuned.