It's Raining, It's Pouring...

It's raining.  Now you might think this is not such an abnormality in London, but it's really raining.  I can hear the drops-steady and beating on the skylights in our foyer and kitchen.  And that's the thing about the weather here-while the days certainly are gray and you may get a shower at points throughout, it is not often that you get a good long pouring rain.  If you want wind and driving rain, you are much more likely to get that in New York City.  When it rains in London, it's usually a drizzle and an umbrella is hardly necessary.  It will wreak havoc on your hair though.  Sometimes I think I would rather just get poured on and look a complete mess, mascara running, water seeping up my pant legs, than have had a light drizzle falling and look generally put together except for the knotty rat's nest that was my hair.  I don't feel like I've had a good hair day since I got here.  As I write, I am sitting, my head wrapped in Saran Wrap, with a mixture of avocado, egg and a bit of olive oil smeared in my hair.  According to Pinterest, this will make my hair smooth and shiny-we shall see.  I also have an acne mask on.  Within two weeks of getting here, my face has decided to time warp back to 1993-an excellent year for me and my skin.  I am convinced that it all has to do with the rain and humidity of this fine city.  I look on the pro-side, I will literally age backwards here.  Just call me Benjamin Button.  My fine lines will disappear and my need for moisturizers will cease to exist.  The con-side is random breakouts and hair that looks like I just stuck my finger in a socket.  I honestly don't know that it's worth it.  But the hope is that my hair and skin will gradually get used to this new climate and things will revert to normal.  In the meantime I will simply try every home remedy that I can find on Pinterest.  I am sure it will go "brilliantly"... as they say.

The one thing that I really wanted to share with you all regarding the weather here is well, the spirit of Londoners when it comes to it.  When I say Londoner I refer to born and bred, transplant, ex-pat, anyone who is currently living and or working in the greater London area.  The thing is, and this is a fairly logical way to approach it all but unexpected to me as a New Yorker, people go out no matter what.  And I'm not just talking 24 year olds going to the club on a Saturday night.  As long as it's not raining and it's not bitterly cold, Londoners sit outside at cafes and restaurants, stand outside of pubs, spend time in the parks, and generally enjoy time out of doors.  Even if it is gray and 43 degrees out, you will find couples seated outside having coffee or a group of young men sharing hookah outside of a Middle Eastern restaurant.  Walk by a pub around happy hour and there will be anywhere from 5-20 people standing outside enjoying a pint, and I am not just talking about smokers.  If the majority of your days are gray and it never really gets super hot then you aren't going to sit inside and wait for those days, you are going to make do with what you have.  I often felt that in NYC Spring, Fall, and most of Summer were so fabulous because the weather was great and everyone was outdoors.  But Winter could be absolute misery mainly because everyone was cooped up inside, simply waiting for when the weather would be pleasant again.  Knowing that you had the other side of the extreme, the sunny hot glorious beach weather just made you hate the winter even more.  In a land of no extremes, you approach things differently.  Granted, there will be very few days where I am walking around this summer in a tank top, shorts, and flip flops-but at least right now, I think I might be OK with that.

The one thing that does baffle me is the London runner.  And when I say this I mainly refer to the men.  They seem unaware that cold weather running gear exists.  The number of, again mainly men, that I see wearing COMPLETELY inappropriate clothing for 35 degree weather (shorts and a t-shirt or shorts and a light long sleeved shirt) is just ridiculous.  I want to stop these men and say, "Get thee to Under Armor, stat!"  I don't care how fast you run-it just baffles me.  The women seem to have it more together.  The only explanation that I can think of is that the weather here since I have arrived has been some of the coldest in years.  Last Monday was the coldest day in London since 1986, so maybe it's just a matter of the weather being inappropriately cold, and not the men being inappropriately attired.  I'm not sure though...  I believe this issue may require further research.

All in all I've been pleasantly surprised by the weather.  Yes it is gray and it is dark and it is doing a bit of a number on my drive to get out and do things, but I find if I make a list of things to see or do in the morning, that gets me out and about.

Today, however, no amount of rain can dampen my mood as J proposed last night.  Now, this may be a bit confusing as I have referred to J as my fiance in previous posts.  From the moment that J and I decided to make this move to London the understanding was that we were making a life decision and proceeded as such.  For the purposes of our relocation, and then subsequent issues with UK Border Patrol, J and I referred to each other as fiance.  However.  J had not formally proposed.  We hadn't gone shopping for rings together, a practice J does not condone, and we had never really talked about a timeline for how things would roll out once I was in London.  I truly had no idea when a proposal would occur or how.  I thought I had an idea of how he might like to do it, but that involved a trip that I did not see happening any time soon.  This said, it wasn't a matter of stress for me as I was simply happy to be with J.  Last night, however, I was completely surprised and delighted when he asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.  I very happily (and tearfully-I HAVE mentioned I am a crier) said yes.  So today I write you feeling warm and "sunshine-y" despite the cold and the rain.

I may even go run outside in shorts and a t-shirt!

Ahhh, Math. So we meet again...

This.

 When I learned that I would be starting a new life in London, there were several things that immediately popped into my head.  They were: I am going to have to learn to drive on the other side of the road, I am going to have to figure out how to think in British Pounds and not US Dollars, I am going to have to figure out Celsius, and of course, I am definitely going to meet Hugh Grant.  What I did NOT think about, however, was how this metric vs. standard situation was going to affect my experience at the gym.  And make no mistake about it; it has made something that is really already taxing enough physically, mentally exhausting as well.

As far as driving on the other side of the road, well I don't need to worry about that at the moment, but I do need to make sure I don't get hit by a car, which I am sure is just days away from happening.  It's not just that the cars are coming the other way, but the drivers are on the other side too-so when I go to stare down the driver with the whole, "Hey, I'm walkin' he-yah!" stare, I find myself simply staring into the empty passenger seat.  Effective.  The British Pounds to US Dollars has been going fairly well.  The only reason to really do it is to figure out what kind of deal you are getting at the supermarket and to compare prices to the US.  This is something that I will probably cease to do after a while.  There haven't been too many obscene differences.  Meat is more expensive, as is juice and soda.  Meals, in general, are a bit more expensive.  The difference here is that tip (10%-12.5%) is already added in most of the time.  If we had a car, the cost of petrol is (in my mind) prohibitive, but it doesn't stop people here!  If prices in the US were what they are here for gas-no one would drive!  South American wines are more expensive than in the States but French and Spanish wines are cheaper.  In this instance, proximity is a blessing.  Time to play 'Know your French wines!'  The Fahrenheit to Celsius issue is coming along.  Either they mention the Fahrenheit equivalent on the news itself or I Google it.  Sooo... it's not like I'm coming along with the math.  I am not even working out the formula on the calculator-I am calling it in.  But cut me a break because I am using all of my math brain cells on the gym and cooking these days.

I should probably mention that I am no great shakes in the math department.  I am not completely lost and if I am in the practice of doing it, I can get in the rhythm and do quite well-but it doesn't come easily.  I was a decent student, honors classes, yadda yadda; except in math.  Some time I will tell you about the great Multiplication Tables Saga of 1989.  That would be third grade and one of the first times that the great math beast reared its ugly head at me.  Now granted, some may say that was more of a failure to memorize a number set, not necessarily understand a concept, but it was merely a nod towards the struggles that were to come.  At some point in middle school, I did move down from the accelerated class and subsequently had a couple of great teachers who helped me get over my issues with math.  But, it is still a weak point for me.

Now maybe, if I just remained ignorant of cooking conversions it would pay off, in that my food would be so bad, I wouldn't eat it and I wouldn't have to go to the gym.  But that's a lie because I would just end up eating croissants from Paul all day long and end up needing the gym even more.  The first time I was met with an unexpected challenge was when I decided to use the oven.  When I roast sweet potatoes, I roast them at 425 F (toss in olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary), so when the oven only went up to 250, I got cranky.  I thought to myself, "Stupid country with your not hot ovens, no wonder your food is supposedly bad."  But then I remembered that the oven is clearly in Celsius, and the problem was that I was stupid.  So now I needed to figure out the conversion.  Let me just say, "Thank you, Google."  Google's motto when it began was 'Don't be evil.'  I kind of think that they have become evil, but I don't care.  I would sell my soul to the Google devil these days for all of its conversion making abilities.  I could ask J as he grew up outside of the US and already can do all of the conversions easy peasy, but I want to figure it out on my own, darn it (thank you again, Google)!

So now to the experience that just blew my mind, and I'm really wondering if not working is making me a moron, because it should have totally been at the forefront of my head as I am a RUNNER and I run distances in KILOMETERS, but it didn't.  I go to the gym.  I get on the treadmill.  I decide to run 3 miles in the manner that I will sometimes do at the gym, in intervals.  And... something is not right.  The gym is brand new and I am like, "They have these treadmills calibrated ALL wrong.  This is ridiculous!"  I hardly need to tell you that the thing that was calibrated wrong WAS MY HEAD.  Luckily I figured this out before I said anything.  I knew I had to run a 5K to get the same-ish distance, but the intervals were difficult.  It was basically a total crap shoot.  I contemplated continuing the gym this way, blissfully ignorant and randomly choosing weights and resistances that looked about right.  But as I like to be comfortable and not in pain, I would never push myself and end up training my body right into a 10 minute mile, which I do not need.  Back I went to Google.  And lucky me there are plenty of conversion charts to help the athletically inclined world traveler.  The thing is, you begin to internalize everything that you are studying and before you know it, after a little smoke emitted from the ears, you are doing the conversions on your own.  Today was much more successful than yesterday.  I am doing my homework before I start with the weights because that could get ugly. 

This morning I was watching the news on BBC and they were doing a piece on how we use math throughout our lives and how it is an important focus for the nation's youth.  Like the US, there seems to be the feeling that the UK is in something of an education crisis.  They are debating daily the relevance of homework, what subjects are most valuable, etc.  I can definitively state that math (or 'maths' as they say here... and no, I have no idea why) will haunt you forever.

FOREVER.

Oh!  And I have yet to meet Hugh Grant.  But I have only been here a little over a week.  Much like getting hit by a car, our inevitable meeting is surely just days away.

Playing Catch Up

I am happy to say, at long last, that I am in the UK!  Hooray!  I am currently sitting in my bright living room, looking out the window towards a little church that is about a 5 minute walk away.  The setting is truly idyllic.  The reception room and kitchen face to the back of the building so it is very quiet.  The 2 bedrooms face the street, but after living literally next to the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel in our last place, our new location is positively tranquil.  J was very concerned throughout the house hunting process that he choose something that we would both be happy with and he did a wonderful job.  I love our new home.  For those interested, our new location straddles South Kensington and Chelsea.  It is quite easy to get to Chelsea, Kensington, Knightsbridge and Hyde Park.  We are also very close to a number of museums which I am very excited about.  Notting Hill and Mayfair are a bit more of a hike, but for these two New Yorkers, it is quite doable.

What a whirlwind the last 2.5 weeks have been!  My last post, informing you all that I had received my visa (amidst happy dance of joy) was only the beginning of a flurry of activity.  The weekend following, J had a business trip to attend and I made a quick NYC-Philly-Boston farewell tour to visit friends and celebrate a number of impending life events.  It's so nice when everyone seems to have something to celebrate.  My mood, of course, was markedly improved with the receipt of my own good news.  No longer was I Betty Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?", I was a downright Pollyanna!

But to be honest, I was still worried about immigration.  Sure I had all of my paperwork in order and had learned a thing or two since my attempt to visit J in December, but one of the lessons that I learned was sometimes all doesn't go the way you expect them to.  While the chances were slim to none that I would be sent back to the US upon arrival at Heathrow, that didn't stop me from worrying about the 'worst case scenario'.  For anyone who knows me, this should come as no surprise.  And for as much as worrying does nothing constructive, at least it does help manage expectations a bit.

So there I was, last Thursday, once again hauling two suitcases, a tennis bag, and an additional carry on into the car.  Actually, that was my dad.  He's probably glad this whole thing was successful just so that he doesn't have to see those suitcases again!  Note to anyone traveling with an extra bag.  It is advisable to simply pay the extra bag fee as opposed to shipping separately.  DHL: $440 Delta: $100  Need I say any more?  It seemed that my good travel karma began at baggage check where one of my bags was overweight.  As the baggage handler frantically scrambled to get my second bag off the conveyer belt to transfer some items, I tried explaining to her that the combined weight of the bags was over 100 lbs., so there was no way that we were going to make this work.  I was actually arguing with the Delta employee to just charge me, because, really, at that moment, I no longer cared.  I was the ideal consumer.  But the slightly crazed look in my eye must have communicated something of the desperation of the situation to her because she waved the overweight fee!  To the Delta Baggage Check girl working Kiosk Assistance on the evening of Thursday, February 21st, 2013 at 7:00-THANK YOU!

Then it was time to say goodbye to my mom and dad.  Saying goodbye to your parents is never an easy thing, and lucky me, I got to do it twice.  In some ways, it felt easier than the first time.  Also, being that I will be back in June, it didn't make it seem as final as it did the first time.  The funny thing is, the first time it wasn't final either.  But this time, there was a difference.  The circumstances of my extended stay gave the farewells a slightly more celebratory feel.  Parents should always want for their children to move forward, create their own families and lives.  And in my leaving, that is what I was doing.  The fact that my parents have produced two children who are not afraid to seek happiness and fulfillment, even if it comes at great distance, is something to be proud of.  Distance does not break the bonds of family.  I am very lucky to have been raised in the family environment that they have created.

7 hours and an uneventful plane ride later, I was landing in Heathrow with my heart in my throat.  All had gone well the first time to this point.  Luckily, the immigration line was not long and I did not have to wait to meet my fate. 

Female immigration officer-damn it.  Cannot use feminine wiles (lot of good they did me the first time).
Then came the question.
UKBP: "Do you have an immigration history with the UK?"
Me: "Why yes I do.  At the beginning of December I attempted to enter the UK and was refused entry."
UKBP: "Why were you refused entry?"
Me: "I arrived without a return ticket, in an attempt to visit my fiance.  The lack of return ticket got me pulled for further questioning.  It was then determined after interview that I was coming here to marry my fiance.  This was not the case.  I was sent home.  It was traumatic."
UKBP: (Snickering, yes, SNICKERING) "Really?  How long have you been engaged?"
And so on...

I was asked why I had obtained a visa prior to entry.  I explained that I had been advised to do so by a colleague of hers in the US.  My passport was confiscated again.  I was asked to go sit on a bench while she checked with her supervisor.  I sat.  And waited.  It probably was no more than 5 minutes, but it seemed closer to mmmm... AN ETERNITY.  Upon her return she handed me my passport and welcomed me to the UK adding, "I hope this was less traumatic for you."  Oh British humor.  You and I will get along well.

After an eon waiting for my baggage to appear I walked through the terminal door and into arrivals at Heathrow where J was waiting for me.  It is not easy to run with 2 suitcases, a tennis bag, and a carry on, but I managed, and promptly started to bawl as he hugged me and welcomed me to my new home.  Finally!  Tears of joy!

I have already been learning a lot and every day is full of new observations and experiences.  Next post I will fill you all in.  I think I'm going to like it here...