London Southern Belle

A fish out of water

Recently, it was pointed out by a work colleague that I had ‘misspelled’ a word on the board in class. The particular word does not spring to mind, but I vividly remember that in my mind it was not spelled wrongly at all. There I stood, slightly lost for words, somehow managing to carry on with my teaching. It was simply substituting the letter ‘z’ for the letter  ‘s’.  The British call this letter a ‘zed’ – even children when singing their ABCs end this little diddy with a T U V W X Y and Zed.  Zed? Who is Zed? I am sure at one point or another some childhood Sunday school teacher mentioned Zed as a Biblical character.  Or was it Zeke?

Just last week as I was clicking through a PowerPoint presentation for one my class sessions on ‘How to Promote Emotion Development in Children through Play” only to realize (or is it realise? I’m so torn!) I had typed in the word ‘behavior’ in typical American fashion without the –our at the end this particular word. Behaviour. Behavior. Tomato. Tomahhhhto.  Should I be expected to completely alter spellings and pronunciation whilst teaching students at college level in another country?

This question quickly prompted my thoughts on all things British and what I have altered since making the transition from living a small life in northern Mississippi to sipping tea and switching off wall sockets after each use.  On/off switches on wall plug sockets - that is a whole new post in itself.  But, with wall sockets aside, I compiled a list of all things British that pertain to my own life.

1. The keys on my laptop. They are not the same as those in America.  Symbols and punctuation marks are altered.  This has taken some time to get accustomed to.

2. When listening to an automated voicing system on the phone they often ask you to speak information.  They do not understand southern American accents. I might as well speak Chinese. I have since realised that if I put on my best British accent, it works 98% of the time.

3. Driving on the left side of the road, on the right sight of the car and trying to negotiate a gear shift with my left hand.  That is just the beginning. Can you say ‘roundabouts’?

4. Searching for a Zucchini in a supermarket. You will not find one. That is because it is called a ‘courgette’.

5. Using ‘military’ time. It is far more common here in the UK.

6. The washing machine is located in the kitchen. Doing your laundry in the same place you cook your dinner is quite an adventure.

7. No central heat. No air conditioning. While this was quite a shock in the beginning, I am gradually taken to this. I do appreciate a drive along the countryside in our air conditioned car during the hot summer months.  Heating is generated by radiators located in each room.

8. Summer months. As a teacher in America, summer holidays seem to last forever. Absolutely blissful. In the UK, we teach until mid July and the new school year begins in September. Not quite as long for a break as I am use to.

9. There are no outlets in the bathroom (which are normally called loos). No hairdryers, no hot rollers, no hair straightening in the loo.

10. Lampshades hanging from ceilings. I have no words for this.

11. Back gardens instead of back yards.

12. Hot tea vs iced tea.

13. Children’s nursery rhymes. The British seem to have completely different ones such as, “wind the bobbin up” and “Sleeping bunnies”.

14. Sex, violence and swearing on TV (errm, the telly). I will never forget hearing the ‘f’ word on 'regular' tv for the first time. 

15. Shoe sizes. I now wear a size 7 instead of US 9.

16. Imperial measurements while cooking? Not a chance here in the UK. I now convert to Metric.

17. Father Christmas instead of Santa. And, here people wish one another a “Happy Christmas.”

18. British Pounds. This took some time learning the money. And as there are no version of the “American dollar” I am constantly carrying around a wallet (which is called a purse) full of coins.

19. Paying to park your car. It is called ‘Pay & Display’. Which means pop a load of money in a machine and it will spit out a ticket for you to display in your car in order to not receive a hefty fine.

20. Paying to use a public toilet.

21. Pay a ‘congestion charge’ to drive your car into central London.

22. Shops closing early. Week days most shops close at 5:30. On Sundays, stores are allowed to open for six hours. No late night shopping.

23. Paying to own a TV. Yes, we pay a connection fee AND taxed to even own a TV.  This is called a TV license.

24. Do not ever tell your students to sit on their ‘fanny’ if you are in the UK. Why? Because it means ‘vagina’ not bottom.

25. Net curtains. Lacy, white and quite old fashioned. They are hanging from most windows. I refuse to conform.

26. On your own birthday, you take in cakes for your work colleagues to eat.

27. When crossing the street, look right first then left.

This list shall forever be amended. It is a no wonder most days I am away with the fairies. It is as if I am learning skills for life all over again. Bloody hell.

Roots or Wings

I have never been one to take chances. At least, I like to think of myself as grounded and safe within the life I live day to day. Surprises have always made me feel slightly unnerving which in the past has completely spoiled the merriment for those who plan such moments of delight. Escapade weekends of “let just see where life takes us” [as handsome man o’ man gently puts it] is enough to make my anxiety itself hail a taxi back to our flat and find refuge in normal scheduling, a palm pilot and routines with no hidden agendas. “Let me check my diary,” should be engraved on my tombstone. If only I could let my hair down. Perhaps some day I will.

Since moving to England, I have found that I am somewhat forced to talk about myself. No matter where I turn and how much I [try] to disguise my steel magnolia thick as molasses southern accent, someone is bound to notice it. Immediately, questions follow. I imagine thoughts of,

“Ice in her tea? Oh, how absurd!”

Instead I hear,

“How on earth did you end up on an island like England?”

Or,

“My! You are brave!”

Brave? Yes, so I packed everything I owned into three suitcases [everything I could fit] and bought a one way plane ticket to England. And, I did it for love; love that found me in the most of unconventional ways over ten years ago. Turns out, I am capable of taking chances. But, does that make me brave?  Choosing to walk away from my southern roots and not fill a front porch of wicker chairs rocking a handful of babies. Fiddle dee-dee! I was twenty-five and unmarried. According to the old speckled hens on the second row [right side] of our family’s church congregation felt I might as well die an old spinster. Infertile? I might as well brand myself with the scarlet letter of “I”.

“You and I are one in the same,” a newly acquainted friend of mine said one afternoon as we sip afternoon tea and nibble scones in Liberty of London. “You have wings,” she said profoundly. I discretely pick out the cranberries from my scone and look at her with a bamboozled expression.

“Wings,” I repeated.

“Yes indeed.  And, not wings that live in a wire cage where you sit pretty all day and sing familiar tunes. You have wings that take you to life.” She then went on to explain how she never could root herself to her original home and felt the need to fly from the nest early on. I admire her travels to Japan, Morocco, India – these spectacular places she bravely travelled single-handily travelling alone to far off lands. It’s so Peter pan. It’s brave. It is …exactly…what I have done.

It took an afternoon tea spent with an old soul to realise that my life encompasses exactly what I have always feared most – bravery. I shall never forget my roots as a southern American girl, but will forever be grateful for my wings.

Travel Overload

Ok, not complete travel overload but certainly no travelling for this gal until I catch up on my winks, have one heck 'ova pedicure and finish the huge pile of laundry handsome man o' mine and I have accumulated.

My parents made their way to the UK and the reunion was ever so sweet. And, it has been spectacular since that moment. Showing my parents my new life has been exciting. Even more so to see their faces light up when experiencing something new. My father has never been one to show excitement -- that is no longer the case. He took more photographs during his journey than I have during the entire time I have lived in England. On yesterday as our train left London in the distance, I glanced over to my father to see him waving goodbye to the city while smiling. It is my favorite memory of him thus far.

Paris. was. spectacular. No matter how many times I visit Paris, I fall in love with it all over again each time. And, to give my parents Paris was beautiful. Our rooms overlooking the Eiffel tower were picture perfect and breathtaking. I shall never forget checking on my parents as they settled into their boutique hotel room. "How is the view, Mom?" I asked as I opened the french windows wide. And there it stood --the Eiffel tower, standing tall as ever -- such a glorious sight that tears rolled down my mother's face. Finally, at the age of 50, she was given Paris.

I have stories to share and photographs to upload all in due course! After they leave early tomorrow morning all shall be revealed!

Following the beat to a different drum

Having my best friend from the deep south of America visiting last week really had me thinking about how I have adapted to the wonderful British culture. Here are a few discoveries that have become second nature to me.

Instead of going to the toilet, one goes to the "loo."

Yorkshire Pudding doesn't look anything like pudding. It's more like a dinner roll.

A lift is an elevator.

The expression "chips" means French fries.

The expression "crisps" means potato chips.

Marmite is a concentrated yeast extract paste, enjoyed at any time of the day, whether on toast for breakfast, in sandwiches at lunchtime, or as an added ingredient in stews and casseroles. It tastes like bonfire yet, my husband loves it therefore I do not mind spreading it on toast in the name of love.

A dual carriageway is a divided highway.

A traditional "English Breakfast" consists of eggs, sausage, bacon, baked beans, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and a fried slice (bread) and of course a cuppa' tea.

A lorry is a truck.

A chemist is a person who works in a drugstore.

A vest is an undershirt.

Aluminium/Aluminum. The Brits really do say "ahl-yoo-minn-yum."

PS- My parents arrive on tomorrow!

Umbrellas and Oliver Twist

Only marriages to Englishmen and living in a foreign country can bring two southern belles like Beth and I together. Fate. Serendipity. Luck.  A blessing. Call it what you like. For me, it is more of a “thank goodness you are here.” I adore Beth. Her impeccable taste in pinot nior, her eye for fantastic photography, her shared love for Tiffany (tiny blue boxes & the infamous 80’s redhead) are addictive. It is a mixture of every close friend I left behind, wrapped up into one magical personality. 

I adore all of my friendships. Friendships for me are sacred. "I'm picky when it comes to friends," she says. I feel the same. Friends are like my handbag collection. Quality, not quantity.  Beth is my coffee friend, champagne for lunch friend, my "bring along your camera" friend. She is now the friend that knows two of my biggest secrets ever. Two sacred secrets that I felt compelled to tell her. There we sat, waiting for a train into the city. The dampness of the air eerily warm, trains approaching, people hovering. And in between roaring trains and raindrops, the words danced from my tongue as if needing an escape route out and knew exactly which way to run to. We laughed and felt compelled to share more. It was a confirmation of trust. A please sign the dotted line. Check yes or no. I realised she was an addition to my picky friend list.

Armed with our British brollies (or American umbrellas), my new Oliver Twist hat and Beth’s perfect and natural tresses, we made our way to the wet streets of London. Oohhh’ing and ahhh’ing over European glitzy couture and spending more time in Liberty’s of London than rain on the rooftops, we allowed moments of mistaking overpriced silks and bath salts for pure heaven.

While England is famous for making sure that everyone fails their first driving test, what England does not ensure is that those transporting brollies actually know how to use them. There are at least 6 metallic and sharp thorns to an umbrella. On a rainy day in London, when everyone feels the need to carry this contraption, it is incredibly daunting. Walk down Bond Street in London on a rainy day and you are bound to lose an eye. As I hold my umbrella high while walking through the masses I hear, “See, she knows how to use an umbrella. She must have gone to umbrella school.” I wanted to curtsy. “And, she has a cute hat!” another girl added. I felt completely satisfied…..until….I nearly lost an eye for the 5^th time.

We sipped orange & cinnamon tea and ate desserts straight from a rainbow while eavesdropping on the table of American girls next to us. “I am so happy to not be that American anymore,” detecting the brassiness of Midwestern accents. It sounds snobby, but true. We were officially British. And, after a few glasses of wine, even have the accents down to a tea.

After tea, came Notting Hill. Peeking into courtyards of secret gardens and admiring the quirky fashion, provocateur agents in £75 worth of lacy sex. One million British pounds can buy us a four bedroom Notting Hill palace. That would take more than a book deal, I remind myself gently.

The rain took a check and we had some wine. We find an eccentric bar on Portobello Road. It holds a muscled man with a Mohawk in combat boots and tattoos while guarding a dainty shopping bag. He sips Guiness. He wears pearls.  We sip wine. And, wear pearls. It was the perfect ending in my perfect bit of London.

Jimmy may have cracked some corn, but it has never tasted so good

I’m a southern girl. I take ice cubes in my tea and that’s not to mention the amount of sugary goodness added. Sweet iced tea. Forget a teacup, never mind a saucer. It taste better in a large sturdy glass on a hot midsummer day without the fuss of a china saucer or one pinkie finger vertically poised with delicate sips.

My old homeland consists of the Mighty Mississippi River full of red mud, the delta blues and southern comfort foods. Southern girls always receive large Lenox platters and slow cooker crock pots as wedding gifts. Why? Because, all southern women slave over a hot stove making an evening roast dinner daily.  Fiddle Deedee!

“I simply cannot eat a bread along side my dinner that is made with half a cup of sugar. It is dessert,” He explains ever so British-ly.

 I can think of nothing better than warm cornbread muffins lightly covered in honey butter. This is my favourite southern comfort food and I have learned to make this from scratch since moving to Mother England. My British husband on the other hand eats this as a dessert.

I remember my grandfather asking my grandmother to make him a “po’ boys dinner”. Yes, it is as low budget and sorry to say non appetising and it sounds; a large class of milk, a dash of tabasco sauce, crumbled corn bread and a stalk of celery. Mmmmmm? Not exactly, what I have in mind when I think of cornbread, but it is a family thing, so I will embrace it (enough to write about it, not have it myself!)

When I moved to England my husband took me to a “carvery” restaurant. It is quite similar to the well known american cow troughs buffet style, yet it is not self-serve. First question they ask,

 “Yorkshire Pudding?”

What? You are asking me for dessert before you find out I am vegetarian and will not be having a slice of the turkey you are currently carving? But instead of creamy chocolate and cream in a dessert dish, a large and rather round bread-like food is stabbed and slapped on my plate.

“It looks like a dinner roll.”

 Oh, no. This is no dinner roll. This is a Yorkshire Pudding. And, Mrs American, don’t you ever (again) pick up that so called “dinner roll” and eat it with your fingers. It is eaten with a fork! Smothered in gravy! Oh the shame and shivers across that restaurant after such an act.

 And, so I learn yet another valuable lesson. I wonder what it would taste like in a glass of milk? Can you imagine the stares!

Basic Southern Cornbread, Country Style

2 cups of self-rising cornmeal

2 eggs beaten

2 cups buttermilk

2 Tablespoons veg. oil

Heat oven to 450 degrees F. Grease your 9-inch skillet with about 2 tablespoon of shortening or oil (my grandmother always used bacon drippings instead). Leave oil in bottom of pan... Place pan in oven to heat

Combine cornmeal, 2 eggs, buttermilk, and the vegetable oil. Mix well. I find a whisk does this nicely. Pour into hot skillet. Batter will sizzle.

Bake at 450 degrees for 35 minutes or until golden brown. Serves 6 to 8

Hint: Sprinkle a little cornmeal in the hot pan before adding the batter. It will brown and add a crispier texture.

bon appetit!

 

Not a sound on the city streets, just the beat of my own heart

I adore the city. Panache, vivacious and buzzing. All of that feeds my soul and more. My feet as they trample the thickened cracked concrete, my calves as they ache more-so than last weeks workout at the local gym. I walk with purpose in the city. Elbow bent delicately clutching a designer handbag under one arm, glossy shopping bags dangling from slender fingers, and gazing through shop windows half looking at the European fashion, but mainly if my brunette strands successfully frame the curves of my face. It's vain at its finest yet and the only care I have is soaking in what I have always wanted, a life in London.

Yesterday. Adventurous. I stepped on the train, sat comfortably next to a businessman discussing real estate to another suit as I forced my nose in a book. The pages made my finger tips dry yet distractions of the city-scape captivate my mind from a moment of any high maintenance act that may occur.

Upon meeting the fabulous Hillary, I coated my lips in shimmery lip gloss, tucked my bag under one arm and took a deep breath. It was time for two Americans to turn the city upside-down. Or vice versa.

Cozy is the nearest Starbucks a la' Americana, we sipped Iced Chai Latte Skinnies and compared our the lives we left behind to the ones we live now. We braved the infamous Oxford Street homing the towering Top Shop. At a distance the city looked like an ant hill, this department store pouring out tiny ants with shopping bags on their backs. There was style, class, euro trash and best of all authentic vintage. We were in heaven. Thumbing through what we thought was every single rack of clothing we could find (we managed to miss a complete floor of denim) and much to our surprise purchased the exact same clothing item - a fitted, yet flowing brown dress-like top with cream flower accents to wear over a pair of denim jeans. "We'll have to send a memo when we wear this," she says. I laugh.

Pizza eaten with our fingers in a side street Italian restaurant, comparing our husbands and dreams of becoming published authors, with occasional sighs of "I want that apartment on this street" consumed our lunch break and saved our feet from becoming one with our heeled shoes. "Fashion over comfort," we agreed.

We ended the day at Harrod's only to discover they have a sushi bar which is what we originally craved. We weaved our way to their well known Parisian tearoom, Laduree which was a delectable treat. I wanted something warm to drink and beautiful to eat. Afternoon tea and sinful french pastries were on my mind. I had a delightful tea, flavoured with orange, cinnamon and rose, while Hillary sipped a cappuccino and we shared raspberry chocolate and praline mini macaroons. The waitresses spoke softly with eloquent frechness, the room was filled with scented sweetness and chandeliers sparkled in sunlight leaving shadows of rainbows on the sage green walls. I was so unbelievably in my element and I could hardly stand it.

During my 30 minute train ride home from Central London, a certain feeling of contentment overcame me. All was quiet. Not a sound on the city streets, just the beating of my own heart. I felt inspired and yet, still wanting more.