London Calling

Attendant with the holiday season is the obligatory visit to the post office. In the States this is a taxing ritual under the best of circumstances. I expected no better in London, especially given the poor attention to service we have experienced at almost every opportunity.

To be fair, Brits do understand the queue. At a post office jammed with dozens of parcel-bearing customers, this is no small matter. Whether at the Tesco Express market(a cross between 7-11 and Safeway), the Waterloo ticket office or a Royal Mail hub, the queue is orderly and comforting. Numbered cashiers push their buzzers as each customer is dismissed, signalling their availability for the next victim.

As I work my way through the line, I pass by a variety of postal products–some with holiday themes–awaiting an impulse purchase. I presume this is an effort to be helpful, not to suck every last pence out of my pocket.  When my turn comes, it becomes clear to everyone in line that I’m new at this.

Yes, the language is the same, but all the products and services are different and it still takes me a few faltering questions to figure out what I need. What’s the fastest way to ship to the US? Will it be there by Christmas? Can I track it? The package goes here? No? Through which window?

I hunt and peck like a novice typist.

Finally, it’s time to pay up. I reach into my pocket for a handful of coins, hoping I can lighten my load a bit. It still takes me a few extra moments to count my British money. By now I’m the hapless American tourist. Finally paid up, I still struggle to deliver my package through the proper window. Not knowing that I must push the appropriate call button, I am forced to yell through the plexiglass for assistance despite everyone in the room, including all the service agents, knowing exactly what I am trying to do. Then I have to drop my newly stamped letters in the box outside because the agents won’t take them. I’m guessing it’s a security risk, but I didn’t stick around to ask.

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Brown envelopes bearing London’s banking bonuses came out this week.  The big news in all the local tabloids: rumor of a £50 million bonus for one Goldman Sachs gambler.  Just in time for a frenzy of over-the-top Christmas parties and a run on the vacation villa market in euro-land.  Makes me think about the money in my pocket, true microeconomics…

What is it with coins in this country?  Is anyone minding the pyx?  One pence, two pence, five, ten, twenty, fifty…still working my way up to a pound.  Then they have the cheek to add a two pound nugget, large enough to double as a coaster for your average shot glass.  After a few errands, I’m weighted down with enough coin to plate a house cat or cast a pint-sized beer flagon.  Early on I wondered why so many ancient Londoners hobbled down the street gently tilted to one side or the other.  My first guess at the odd bit of leftover shrapnel probably has some validity, but a lifetime of carrying pocketfuls of pence and pounds may have just as much to do with it.  I’m tempted to start a change jar for the kids but, sadly, the exchange rate forces me to keep the larger denominations in play.  Those mini coasters are currently trading at over four bucks a pop, good for a pint–sometimes two–at the local pub…

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Did anyone else buy a Christmas tree from a dry cleaner, take it for a 15 minute bus ride, then drag it for two blocks along the sidewalk, in the rain, to get it home?

What was I thinking?

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The London weather everyone has been warning us about is finally here.  To borrow from Thomas Hobbes, these winter days have become “nasty, brutish and short.”  The kids walk to school in the dark.  They come home in the dark.  In between, the days fluctuate wildly between heavy rain and brilliant sunshine.  Throughout the fall I’ve carried an umbrella as a talisman to ward off the rain.  It’s worked like a charm.  But, no more.  Most days it’s wet enough to warrant an umbrella, but too windy for it to be of any use.  Come to think of it, very much like winter weather in northern California, but the days are shorter and darker.  The sun barely gets half way up in the sky before heading back to the horizon.  East-west city streets are in shadow all day long, even on a clear day.  Adding insult to injury, today we had to deal with this.  Global warming anyone???

Can anyone else hear the incessant whine of the wind whistling through our casement windows?

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No one is ever going to mistake me for a Londoner.  I dress somewhere below smart-casual.  I sport a beard that usually needs a trim.  I don’t walk with a purposeful stride, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a coffee or Blackberry in the other.  When I hear Chelsea, I think fashion photographers, not football.  And I don’t own a car that can go from 0-60 between London stop lights.  I guess being a better fit in Berkeley would make me a country bumpkin in New York just as easily as here, but somehow the car thing stands out more than in Manhattan.

 I’ve always assumed that the car fetish was peculiarly American, but I’m learning that, aside from LA, it may be more intense over here.  After all, the first automobile race track was built less than an hour from downtown London (subject of a future post).  Several locals have told me that the car makes the man.  With the boom in real estate prices, apparently it’s more socially cost effective to live small and drive big, hence the proliferation of Bentleys, Rolls Royces, Porsche Cayennes, Aston Martins, Ferraris, etc.  Granted, we live in a pretty affluent neighborhood, but I’ve traveled and worked in some of the most absurdly wealthy communities in the US and have rarely seen this kind of auto excess.  It’s not unusual to see a Ferrari roaring down a neighborhood street only to screech to a stop at the next intersection.  In London traffic, that’s just a waste of good petrol…

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Actually it’s been 102.  So I’m a delinquent blogger…shoot me.  So far, so good.  The kids have actually expressed interest in staying longer than a year.  I guess they like London.  There is no question that they miss their friends and life back home, but they’re enjoying this adventure and are already dreading the next round of goodbyes.  Adaptable little buggers…

Oh yeah.  102 days since I’ve been behind the wheel of a car.  By far the longest stretch since receiving my learner’s permit 30 years ago.  That will end in 17 days when we take to the Dolomites of the south Tyrol for the winter holiday.  Hope I still remember how to drive…
 

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