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.