Morning Minefield

Did you know your sheets might be a health hazard? I didn't either. It turns out our luxurious high-thread count cotton sheets may have been bleached and soaked in pesticides. Hopefully we have washed most of it out in hot water, but are we aware the detergent we used may contain unhealthy chemicals, too? It's enough to ruin a good night's sleep.

We need our rest because when we roll out of bed in the morning, we face a minefield of dangers.

We jump into the shower, savoring the spray that wakes us up. But don't enjoy it too much. If we don't have a filter on the shower, the city water flowing over us may be full of toxic substances (lead, chlorine) that are penetrating our skin. The shower head itself may be harboring bacteria (make a note to use mostly metal ones). The chemicals in our soap and shampoo may be dangerous, too. It turns out the stuff that promises silky smooth skin and shiny, bouncy hair may be abetting our eventual demise.

Brushing our teeth seems safe. If we use Listerine, however, we are warned that the alcohol content may cause mouth cancer.

Deodorant? We better make sure there is no aluminum in it on the chance that it will cause breast cancer.

We religiously apply the sunscreen that for years we have been strongly advised to use to avoid skin cancer. But then we hear about a new report that says the use of some of the most popular sunscreens may, in fact, cause skin cancer.

It seems unregulated chemicals in the stuff are harmful. Hats, covering up exposed areas (hard to do in the pool), sunglasses, and avoiding the sun during the hottest part of the day are all advised. Just be sure those sunglasses have proper lenses that screen out the harmful rays or we risk ending up with macular degeneration.

Women may apply a little make-up. But wait! The chemicals in our creams and lipstick may make us more beautiful but they could also make us ill. If we are true earth mothers, we can apply a little olive oil to moisturize and smear a beet on our cheeks and lips for color. If we prefer not to smell like a salad or look like a clown, we can just risk it and use our Clinique.

A spritz of cologne or after shave? We may love a subtle scent but don't enjoy it too much. There may be unhealthy chemicals in our favorite fragrance, too.

If our clothes have been dry cleaned, we risk exposing ourselves to harmful solvents.

We go into the kitchen for a glass of water, which shouldn't come from a plastic bottle because BPA may have leaked into it. I know we aren't supposed to be drinking bottled water at all for green reasons, but that's another subject. If we are using filtered water, we better make sure the filters are changed often enough or we risk serious consequences. City water? Forget it. It's full of contaminants, and we got enough of those when we showered in it.

We may want to scramble an egg or make oatmeal. We like to use a non-stick pan because clean up after those two items is a chore. But wait! Make sure it is not Teflon! It's been linked to serious health problems.

Do you want peanut butter on your toast? Be careful! The peanuts used to make it may have harbored a mold that could cause health problems. Open that jar of Jif or Skippy at your own risk.

Taking medications of any kind? All the things we have been told are keeping us healthy might actually be making us sick. Just hope for the best. Taking vitamins? Make sure you are not over-dosing or taking supplements that may contain harmful chemicals.

As we pass through the house we encounter all kinds of potential hazards: cordless phones, cell phones, clock radios, wireless stations, microwaves, electric blankets, and who knows what else may all be creating electro-magnetic fields that could affect our health. Short of walking around in a space age suit that deflects the field, what are we to do?

We've run a gauntlet of dangers and it's not even 9 am. Armed with hand sanitizers, anti-bacterial wipes, and perhaps tranquilizers to deal with the anxiety generated from all the perils we face, we venture forth, always on guard against life's dangers.

We can do research to find the safest sunscreens, cosmetics, soaps, pots and pans, cell phones, etc. It's easy with google. We can be aware of the most serious health hazards, but at what point do we stop obsessing and just enjoy life?

A Walk in the Park

When British meteorologists correctly predict a day that reaches "a blistering 80 degrees," Londoners strip down and take to the streets.

Pubs, cafes and restaurants set up tables on the sidewalks and sun worshipers line up to get one of the coveted seats. Some of us might shy away from eating egg mayonnaise while sitting in full sun but the sun-starved Brits are fearless.

After sixteen years of living among Northern and Central Europeans who are deprived of regular sunshine, I can confidently state that they don't often follow doctor's orders about staying out it or using sunscreen when they are in it.

No, they are the fair ones who plop down on a beach in Majorca or Greece or Turkey and bake until they are lobster red. They're the ones who face the sun with a reflector tucked under their chins to attract even more rays. They're the ones who will decide that the perfect time to take a hike or mount their bikes on a sultry Tuscan summer day is when the sun is highest. When Noel Coward sang "mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun," he knew what he was talking about.

Here in London, the entire mood of the city lifts palpably when the weather is warm and sunny. Right now you can add the excitement of the coming World Cup and Wimbledon, and the atmosphere is positively festive.

Aside from pubs and cafes, Londoners flock to one of the city's parks. Our local one is Regent's Park, which I think is the most beautiful in town. Stroll through it on a warm sunny day and you will partake of a living theater.

The fields are full of people playing soccer, flying kites, having picnics, taking naps, cuddling and kissing, reading, romping with dogs, walking babies, riding bikes, running, playing frisbee. You might see a group of cricketers, dressed in white, sharing a bottle of champagne under a small tent. Or a dance troupe rehearsing. Couples row boats or paddle by on the lake. Children throw bread to the ducks. There is an old-fashioned bandstand on which there might be musical entertainment. There could be a Somalian wedding taking place in one of the side gardens.

It is called "ice cream weather" so the Brits patiently line up (queue) twenty deep to get theirs from the vendors around the park.

You'll hear snatches of conversation: "They had those lovely chili prawns there." "Did I tell you that one of those bloody swans almost bit me last week?" "Darling, I quite fancy a pizza tonight."

One sure sight: half-naked Brits baking under the hot sun. Bikinis, Speedos, underwear, anything goes when the weather is warm.

This is London, so there are Pakistani families here, Indian families there, and families from all over the Middle East everywhere.

Often those women are scarfed, and sometimes they wear the shapeless black chador, with everything but their faces covered, and sometimes even those are shielded up to the eyes.

I've heard that some of them are not forced to wear the chador but choose to do so for religious and political reasons. I'm thinking how convenient it is for them. They can get fat, fore go make-up, have bad hair days and go out in their nightgowns if they want to. Who would know?

I try to be open-minded, but the truth is seeing that garment makes me angry. The idea behind it is that the woman is preserving her modesty, that the sight of her hair or female form might cause men to think impure thoughts (as if the mystery of what lies beneath the veil doesn't arouse a few fantasies). A woman who chooses to wear it perpetuates that idea and does her sisters who are forced to wear it no favors by embracing it.

There is a law in Italy that no one may enter a public building without his/her face being visible. Recently a woman in full chador was fined 500 euros for entering a post office, the first time the law was enforced. Her family was incensed.The Italian authorities held their ground, saying that a motorcyclist with a helmet covering his face would have been treated the same way. Her husband responded by saying that he would have to "keep her at home because I can't have other men looking at her."

Let's go back to the park, where I noticed a woman in full chador sitting in the grass with her husband. Only her eyes were visible. They may have thought that if she removed the long black coat, gloves and veil that she wore in the hot sun all the men in the park would stop what they were doing and lose control of themselves. The cricketers would drop their bats at the sight of her hair. The guy kissing his girlfriend would be distracted by the sight of her wrist. Men would leave their places in the ice cream queue after a glimpse of her ankle.

I'm betting she could have stripped down to her underwear and those men would not have noticed. Why would they when the lawns were full of sunbathing women (and men)? They would have more interest in the soccer match being played across the field, the kite that couldn't catch the wind, or even what ice cream flavor they were going to choose if they ever got to the front of the line.

Going Dutch

We have been to Amsterdam a few times before in our lives, but we only "got" the city on our last visit a few days ago.

My first introduction to the town came right after university when a friend and I backpacked around Europe for three months. Amsterdam was one of our last stops and it was the only time I ever stayed in a youth hostel. It scarred me for life. Like Scarlett O'Hara swearing that she would never go hungry again, I swore never to stay in a place like that again. And I haven't. That experience, though, colored how I felt about the city. Until now.

If I lived in Amsterdam, the first thing I would do is get a bike.

There are 750,000 people in the city and 600,000 bicycles. To discourage thieves, the bikes are well worn and plain. People steer the high handlebars sitting erect. Sometimes they attach wagons in front for their children. Kids are also carried in seats behind or in front of the cycler. We even saw a few strapped into infant slings. Friends ride side saddle on the back. No one wears helmets. On most streets the city is hushed, despite the presence of (a few) cars. The soft sound of methodical pedaling over cobble stoned streets is a memory I took away, along with the image of two friends riding side by side, carrying on a leisurely conversation.

The second thing I would do if I lived there is get a pair of stilts.

The Dutch are a robust and ruddy people. They are also tall. I've read they are the tallest in the world, with an average height of six feet for men and women. A question: With only the little country of Belgium between them, why are the Dutch so tall and the French so small?

John, who gets his height from Dutch ancestors, wryly offered a Darwinian explanation. Historically, when the dams burst and the sea flooded in, the likeliest survivors were those who could keep their heads above water.

They seem to be a practical and tolerant people, as evidenced in the following behavior:

1) Recognizing that the oldest profession will always have clients, they legalized prostitution. Those engaged in the trade even have their own union. They get mandatory medical check-ups four times a year. The police don't waste time setting up sting operations to arrest them or their customers.

2) Smoking cannabis is not illegal if done in a designated "coffeeshop." The tolerant Dutch think it is less harmful than drinking, and not as likely to lead to violent behavior. If one were so inclined, s/he could stop by a "coffeeshop" on the way to dinner and puff on things with names like "power plant," "amnesia haze," and "train wreck." On the other hand, ordinary smoking is forbidden in bars, restaurants, and the like. It's bad for your health.

3) If you are terminally ill, in great pain, and wish to end your life, euthanasia is allowed after a set of guidelines are followed.

4) Homosexuality is completely accepted. In our former diplomatic life, John's counterpart from the Netherlands lived openly with his partner. There is even a Homomonument in the city, made up of three large pink granite triangles. During their occupation of the country in World War II, the Nazis made gays wear a pink triangle.

I've read that the Dutch have reached their tolerance level when it comes to immigration, though. Like most countries in Europe, and certainly in the United States, this is a big issue.

However, on a long and (unusual) sunny weekend it was pleasant to roam the streets of Amsterdam looking at the narrow and ancient houses, eating apple pancakes, sitting outside on the terrace of Cafe Americain, cruising slowly through the canals, and NOT staying in a youth hostel. It all added up to a real Dutch treat.

Falling Ash

Who knew that volcanic ash would become a subject we discussed over breakfast? That we would monitor its progress across Europe to determine when we could safely fly out of England? That its falling residue would concern us?

In case you have been ignoring all forms of news, a volcano erupted in Iceland, sending a thick plume of volcanic matter high into the atmosphere. It created a real threat to aviation. The cinders can interfere with jet engines, shutting them down in mid-flight.

It happened in 1989, when a KLM 747 lost all four engines en route to Alaska. The plane flew into a cloud of ashes from an erupting volcano 150 miles away. It dropped 14,000 feet before the pilots could restart the engines. As it fell, the Dutch pilot spoke to the passengers: "We are sorry to report that we have lost all four engines. We are trying our best to re-start them. I hope this does not cause you too much distress."

Of course not.

To prevent such a terrifying recurrence, all the airports in Britain and a good part of Europe have been closed for over two days, stranding passengers all over the world. We just heard that all flights out of London are cancelled tomorrow, too. We have friends who can't get out of Paris or Rio. That's rough.

Our plans to fly to Amsterdam for the weekend were scuttled by the lingering ash cloud. Our schedules had aligned nicely with the brief opening period of the Keukenhof Gardens, which the book "1000 Places to See Before You Die" tells us we must do. John says it is the most expensive book he ever bought because I make travel plans built around the places it suggests. He came to that conclusion after observing me going methodically through the book, checking things off. What did he expect?

We'll miss the Gardens this year. Instead of tripping through thousands of tulips, we'll stay in London and follow the slow progression of the ash cloud and the rapid pace of the British elections.

Notwithstanding the pedicures (or not) of the wives of the candidates (see "Toe to Toe," April 14) the first debate yielded a big victory for Nick Clegg, the leader of the Liberal Democrats. Voters deemed him the winner, which may now make the real contest between him and Tory David Cameron, with incumbent Gordon Brown a distant third. Newspapers are comparing Clegg to Barack Obama and calling the debate a game changer.

Those not invested in the outcome called it a channel changer.

Toe to Toe

(Guardian)

We arrived back in London on Monday morning. As we rode from Heathrow into the city, a giant billboard caught our attention: there was Prime Minister Gordon Brown, shown with his eyes half-closed, as he often is, smiling while framed by the words "I doubled the national debt. Vote for me." Along the road, more followed: "I took billions from pensions. Vote for me." "I let 80,000 criminals out of jail early. Vote for me."

The Brits do sarcasm so well.

Nasty as it is, I think the poster campaign might be effective. Are they telling the truth or twisting the facts? I don't know, but it doesn't matter. Enough people will remember those posters when they enter the voting booth, and that can't be good for Gordon Brown.

The British elections will take place on May 6. The date was announced on April 6, which opened the month-long campaign season for prime minister and seats in Parliament. Unlike American elections, which drag on forever, the Brits get it all out there in thirty days. The first debate of three will take place tomorrow night. The candidates for prime minister are: Labour party incumbent Gordon Brown, Tory leader David Cameron, and Nick Clegg of the Liberal Democrats. The real contest is between Brown and Cameron, with Clegg possibly becoming a power broker by creating an alliance with one of the other two parties.

By all accounts, no clear leader has yet emerged in the polls. As an expatriate I can sit back and observe the action without the fierce emotions I felt during the last American campaign, when I was capable of primal savagery.

Gordon Brown is a lumpy fellow, often called "hapless," though his heart seems to be in the right place. He is reported to have a terrible temper. I've read that President Obama found him "a downer" and thinks he is on his way out.

David Cameron is physically attractive in a soft, British upper class kind of way, which is where he comes from. He is often called "an empty suit," a "toff" with no understanding of working people.

Thanks to the ever-vigilant British press, I've become aware of the wives of Brown and Cameron. You might say I know them down to their toes. In the battle of the little piggies, Samantha Cameron is the clear winner.

Photographed recently wearing peep toe shoes (from Zara, surely to show that she is, in fact, one of the people), she displayed an immaculate, "sleek" pedicure, though her choice of black polish led some papers to describe her as "goth." Several photos zeroed in on her feet so voters could decide for themselves if a man married to a woman who paints her toenails black would be a good prime minister.

Poor Sarah Brown suffered mightily by comparison. While visiting a Hindu temple earlier this week, she was forced to remove her shoes. "Frightful" was the way one paper described her feet. The ubiquitous press used their telescopic lenses to reveal yellowed toenails and one deformed little piggy. "She clearly doesn't have it nailed," "Badly in need of a pedicure," the papers proclaimed. As voters inspected the unattractive feet of Sarah Brown, were they wondering if a man married to a woman who neglects her toenails could lead the country?

The attractive Mrs. Clegg has not shown her bare feet, though she appears to be a woman who would take care of her toes. Should voters look at Mr. Clegg more closely?

The candidates will come together tomorrow night to debate the serious issues facing Britain: the economy, unemployment, immigration, the decline of the National Health Service, the upsurge in crime.

Voters being who they are, though (I have only to mention Sarah Palin here), there will be some thinking about the really important issues, like the state of Mrs. Brown's toes or Mrs. Cameron's possible Gothic tendencies as evidenced in her choice of toenail polish. As the candidates go head to head, their partners are going, at least in some widely read newspapers, toe to toe.

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.