Working with My Son

I'm working with my son.
Can you imagine how odd that is?
Today, all of a sudden, he was sitting in my chair, after I went to the bathroom. He sits in a completely different part of the office from me, which is good.
He didn't have much to do there today. Other days have been busier for him. He's one of quite a few interns.
So, I guess he decided to come visit.
I had been writing. Was thinking about what I had been doing, which was getting good play.
Which always makes me happy. Pathetically happy.
So when I saw him there, it didn't fit, somehow.
Like, what is my son doing where I work? What is it, bring your kid to work day? It was odd.
'Cause they're always just your kids.
Anyway, it's been good for him. He's been there a week. I was only there the last couple of days.
Now, I'm not working until Wednesday, which is okay, I guess. A couple days this week. A couple days next week.
It might need to be more than that.
To keep me sane.

London Women

I know this may sound strange -- and I know you may not agree -- but the women in London are cuter than the women in Paris.
They're funkier, more inventive, more original.
They're wearing short-shorts with black tights and Uggs. Clingy black dresses with big wide belts and Doc Marten boots. Sharp suits with tights and stilettos. Lots of cute boots -- tall, short, ankle, over-the-knee. Lots of cute coats and scarves. Long blonde hair.
They make you want to try new combinations, give it a whirl, why not.
The women in Paris are classic, yes, but kinda monochrome too. They don't catch the eye in the same way.
And they can have a superior look.
Instead of a smile when you catch their eye.
In London, people are pleasant. They pride themselves on being nice. Polite. They're all about that.
They like to make you laugh.
I like that.
Paris is also full of Americans. Everywhere you go, every neighborhood, every market. Maybe it's because the language stands out more there. Maybe it's because Americans have always loved Paris.
In London, there are Americans too, of course. Lots of them. Hell, I'm one of them. So what am I talking about?
But it doesn't feel over-run in the same way. Because London's a lot bigger, so much bigger.
This is a huge city.
That's one of the problems.
It's too huge. Too spread out. A bunch of little towns, really, all connected.
Paris is compact, easier to get around. Take a cab. Walk over there.
It's easier to meet up with people there, because they don't live an hour and a half away on public transport, like they can in London.
London's little towns have their charms, though -- and the weather in the two cities is almost the same.
Even though they say it rains less in Paris.
But I'm not so sure.
Because it doesn't rain here as much as it did.
That's what everyone keeps telling me.
And it hasn't rained that much, at least recently. Which has been really nice.

The Connections of Life

Had a dream last night that two of my old book-club pals from Washington had moved to the UK.
I don't need Freud to help me interpret that one, do I?
Yearning for past connections. Already made, already solidified.
Got me thinking about the connections we make in life.
They're often just out of circumstance. If not always so.
I mean, who do we make friends with?
People we end up spending time with, for one reason or another, usually.
First of all, the people we work with.
Which is not surprising, considering how much time we spend with them -- and how much you have in common at that time (your entire work life, which is a lot).
I've had lots of dear work friends over my working life. I miss them all now.
Then for parents, there's the friends you make through your children.
Like my book-club pals. All mothers of boys, like me, who played sports in middle and high school in the States. Same age as mine. We met -- and became friends -- on the school bleachers basically, watching games. I loved those school games. It's hard to beat a good high school basketball game on a Friday night. When your son's playing. And you're surrounded by people you know and like. At the same life stage as you.
I've still got friends, too, from other periods of my boys' childhoods -- when they were toddlers and elementary schoolboys in Hong Kong. Made some great friends then. I miss them all now too.
Connections.
They come and go.
Because jobs come and go.
Because kids grow up.
Because people change their lives.
Because people move.
Because some just get lost along the way.

Il Sole

The sun makes everything good, doesn't it? Makes almost everywhere beautiful.
That's why people flee to places with sun -- to retire there, vacation there, just GET IN THAT SUN for awhile.
There's a show on TV here called Places in the Sun, which features a British couple each episode who are considering buying a property in a sunny place -- usually in the Mediterranean -- or one in England.
They say what their budget is, and where they're considering, both here and abroad. Then a real estate agent in each place shows them three properties in each locale -- and they decide by the end of the half-hour.
They're always lured by the sun, these folks, but they often decide to stay at home.
The comfort and familiarity of home. Versus the soothing and healing powers of the sun. Makes for good television.
What makes the show interesting to me, besides seeing all the properties and how much they cost of course, is watching the couples, often retirees, work through their dilemmas, their desires, their life plans, and then coming to their conclusions. And why they decide what they do.
Back to the sun.
It's so damned important.
It's been sunny the last two days here, just clear and bright and sparkly autumn. And it's supposed to stay sunny and warm all week.
How gorgeous. London is so beautiful in the sun.
I wish it was always sunny. It's so much easier to be happy.
Yesterday, before my old ladies Pilates class (which is really quite good), a group of us were standing around talking about the weather. As one does here.
I was saying how gorgeous it was.
A woman chimed in, saying, yes, but where's the rain? We haven't had enough of it. It's gotta come at some point.
Bummer.
Another woman remarked that she thought the weather had actually changed in Britain.
Liked that.
She said that when she came to London from Croatia 17 years ago, she didn't see the sun for the first two years. That she was so depressed, she could barely leave the house. She comes from the sunny Croatian coast, she explained.
Didn't like that.
She said it's been changing though. It just doesn't rain anywhere near as much as it used to.
I thought back over the past eight months. There hasn't been a huge amount of rain, she's right.
We had a gorgeous spring, I remember that.
The summer wasn't that great, but I was in Italy for a lot of it, thank god.
So far, autumn hasn't been too bad.
I'm scared of winter, I won't lie.
But maybe my new Croatian Pilates-buddy, who sounds more British than anything else (I guess she got over her depression), is right.
Maybe the weather in Britain has changed.
I like that, even though, I know any weather change is scary.
Anyway, gotta go out for a walk in this dazzling afternoon sunshine.
Before it becomes a distant memory.

The NHS

To: Barack Obama
From: An American Expat in London (and the side of a hill in Italy)

Please stay with health-care reform, Barack. I beg you.
It's such a worthy goal.
I'm not convinced you'll be able to really change anything in the States -- the forces against you are so rich and powerful -- but please just keep trying. For all of us. Please.
If you've got a minute (I know you don't, but what the hell), can I tell you my nothing health-care story?
I went to my first appointment with my National Health Service doctor here in London this morning.
It was a delight, Barack. Such a difference from back home, in so many little, but important, ways.
Although I signed my husband and I on with an NHS doctor walking distance to us just as soon as we got here (had to so I could get coverage for us back in the States under my retirement plan if we decide to go back), I hadn't needed to actually go to the doctor yet.
I mean, I guess I could've gone, seeing as I had the swine flu and all, but that was in Italy (although it lingered on) and I'm not a huge run-to-the-doctor type. Especially for the flu.
And I was a good girl, Mr. President.
I had a lot of routine tests with my doctors in the States before I left. So I wouldn't have to go right away here.
But I do have a condition that needs monitoring once every six months to a year or so, so it was time.
First difference: I used to go to a specialist in the States for this routine monitoring -- an endocrinologist -- which I knew even then I didn't need to see. And first, before seeing the specialist I didn't really need anymore, I had to go to a lab to have blood drawn in a completely different place from my doctor -- and then to my endocrinologist afterwards.
This used to cost me a bit in co-pays -- about $50 -- even though we had two insurance policies through our employers.
But it really used to cost my insurance company quite a bit. I saw it on the bills.
Here, I just went to the regular GP. She said I can just have my blood drawn there.
And I don't need to see an endocrinologist now.
We save our specialists for when there's something wrong, she said, when there's something to treat.
Boy did that make sense.
It was all really straight-forward -- and friendly -- and efficient.
She was an Indian woman, about my age. Really warm.
I liked her a lot.
Good job, since she's my doctor.
She wrote me a prescription for something I used to take in the States.
It wasn't covered on my insurance, so I used to pay for it there -- and it was really expensive.
Here, it was £7 for two months worth.
I told her quickly about my husband, who had a life-threatening illness six years ago.
He had a full scan before we left the States, again so we wouldn't have to immediately get one here. His doctor in the States said he wouldn't be checking him again for a year there either.
So soon, it'll be time for him to go in as well.
Bring all the medical records with you, she said.
Yeah, will do.
Nice warm smile.
So far, so good.
Barack, I know our medical system is cutting-edge. I saw that when my husband was sick. I appreciate that so much. And I was so afraid to leave it, precisely because of my husband's illness.
But it's all just so expensive at home -- and so inefficient really. And lining pockets that don't need lining.
I know we can do better than that, Barack.
And I know you know that too.

The Color of Cities

Paris, maybe more than any other city, has its color.
It's so distinctive. Such an unique look.
But what color is it exactly?
I've been trying to name it for the past two days.
And I invite you all to weigh in. Since I'm no Paris expert.
It's grey, but then it can be almost the color of a magnolia, or is it sand? Even at times off-white, or even white. But never white-washed, like something in the Mediterranean, god forbid, no.
That's not elegant enough.
And then the buildings are often flat-fronted, six or seven stories high, all with black wrought iron window railings. Not balconies or terraces like in Italy -- not the weather for that -- just faux balconies, really, just the railing outside the window, often with a splash of red geraniums on top.
And then there's the terracotta chimney tops, all lined up on the flat rectangular stone chimneys on every building.
Street after wide street the same in harmonious elegance.
Stunning.
And so unique.
Rome has a color too -- and I've struggled trying to name that one. Please help me there as well.
Rome's a burnt sienna, with a bit of pumpkin, some faint orange maybe, with some brown. More earth-colored; less austere.
More faded, though, too. Needs a paint job.
Paris doesn't need a paint job.
London's easy -- it's the color of brick, row upon row of little brick houses in tidy little brick streets. Endless little brick streets with rectangular signs with big black round lettering.
Do the big cities in America have a color too?
I'm not sure.
What color is New York -- in my view, America's most glorious city?
Is it a color?

Taking the Eurostar

So excited today! Gonna take the Eurostar to Paris.
To visit a girlfriend for the weekend. The one who divides her time between London and Paris.
Never taken the Eurostar under the English Channel before. And it's already 15 years old.
Everyone says it's cool. Only takes two-and-a-half hours to get to Paris. Leaving this afternoon, will be there in time for dinner with her. At her local cafe, she suggested, downstairs from her flat.
Yes!
This is the kind of weekend I imagined myself having when I thought about living in London.
But it's the first time I've done anything like this. And we've been here 8 months already. (that long?).
I mean, I've been to Italy a lot, certainly over the summer, but I never just ran off for a long weekend somewhere, somewhere close, yet far (like Paris). All my trips to Italy were long, really long by anyone's standards. More like living there.
This summer was all about trying to get comfortable there, make it home. And then make this home too. And look for work here. And run all the administrative errands that come with moving (no, I still haven't changed all my addresses -- don't even know how long I'll be at this address really).
And all the mind traps.
And then my son. Stress about what he was going to do -- trying to help.
But now that's sorted for awhile.
So it's time for a fun little jaunt like this. For myself.
I need to have a little bit of fun now, just a little.
Even though I haven't worked that much (in a traditional sense), over the past 14 months, I feel like I've worked myself to the bone. In my mind. I'm exhausted. From the stress of it all. From the anxiety.
That may sound ridiculous.
So I beg your forgiveness in advance.
My husband and son will spend the weekend together here in London. My husband's off work. My son has four more days until his internship starts.
Ciao for awhile!
Or shall I say, "bon voyage!"

Work Again

Amazing how much self-worth we get from our jobs.
I hate that though. The reliance on that.
But it feels so good when things go right.
Which they often don't in the workplace.
The work I did over the past three days at my freelance job got validated today. Good play, compliments.
First time that's happened to me since I left my old job uh, more than a year ago now.
My old job wasn't always good, like a lot of jobs, it went up and down, but at the end, it was the best it had ever been.
I was on a roll right before I left -- writing for different sections of the paper, writing, writing, writing. My kids had left home; my parents had died. I had time for the first time in two decades. And my newspaper was full of places where a reporter with time could express themselves.
It was all good.
Until it all went bad.
Because the newspaper industry is dying. Which is so sad.
Everyone involved with it knows it though.
So I took the buy-out. Even though things were going good.
Next buy-out -- they've had two more since mine -- I probably wouldn't have had a choice. Didn't have great choices even when I took it.
More reason to look towards the future. Not stay mired in the past. Like my girlfriend said.
And today, I am.
Because they liked what I wrote. Gave it good play. Told me about it.
Aaah...
How pathetic is that?

Italy-bound

Ohmigod. We heard from the Italian company today.
They're going to offer my son a paid internship in Rome starting in January.
He's so excited. We're so excited for him.
He said he woke up this morning, thinking, 'I want to go to Italy.' Maybe that's because neither his dad nor I were home. We were both at work when he got up.
He had another long day to himself here, poking around on the Internet, looking for work. Or not. Trying not to spend any money.
He was feeling discouraged.
Then this afternoon, the email from Italy came. A six-month internship at an American accountancy firm in Rome. With the possibility of a job offer depending on how that goes. A decent possibility.
In Rome.
He can live on our side of the hill for awhile.
Use the car I bought to get back and forth to work.
It's about an hour by car.
Which is almost what it is by Tube to my job here in London.
Ohmigod.
What a day. A momentous day.
My son is going to live in Italy.
At our house.
After Christmas.
What does that mean for us?

Learning English

My son and I walked out yesterday afternoon to have an afternoon pick-me-up sweet. Decided to go have a nutella crepe at a place nearby.
It was Sunday and sunny, so there were hundreds of people out on our high street. On nice weekend afternoons, the high street here is simply packed with people, shopping, having brunch, walking hand-in-hand, picking up fresh flowers, kids on pedal scooters, kids in strollers, old couples with linked arms, women in short-shorts, women in veils -- all of humanity is there.
It makes you feel part of things to be out with them all.
So we strolled along, bought a Sunday paper, and then sat at an outdoor table in the sun at the French crepe place.
The waitress, cute, perky and thin with curly long brown hair, came up to take our order.
She could barely speak English, but I knew that accent well -- hell, I grew up with it.
"Are you Italian?" I asked her, in Italian.
Huge relief swept across her young face.
And we proceeded to have a quick get-to-know-you in Italian.
The young Roman girl, only 20, just got to London a week ago. Got the job at the French crepe place two days earlier.
She couldn't talk long. She was new. She kept looking over her shoulder to see if the boss was watching.
Came to London to learn English. Got a room nearby.
But it was hard.
Found this job, though, so that was good. Even though it was only part-time.
Missed Rome like hell. Big fat tears welled up in her huge doe-like eyes when I asked about home.
Used to work as a waitress at the Cavallieri Hilton in Rome, up in the Monte Mario neighborhood.
I know it well. Family friends lived in the neighborhood for years; I've spent a lot of time around there.
"I had to learn English," she said, in Italian. "Otherwise, I'll still be a waitress there when I'm 40."
"If I learn English, then I can go back to the hotel there and do something else, not be a waitress."
Go home, to Rome, of course. As soon as possible.
Big watery brown eyes.
As we walked back home, we noticed that another place on our high road, a bit more up-market, had a sign up asking for experienced waiters.
With good English.
Stressed that part.
My son eyed it.
May have to go that route after this internship.
Which thankfully, starts a week from today.

The Youngest

The one person missing from this domestic equation at the moment is our youngest son, who's the only one in the immediate family still in the States. In his final year in college.
It's odd for him not to be with us now. We all feel his absence.
Our family unit has always been the four of us -- the two of them, and the two of us. Since they're two boys, and only 21 months apart in age, they were always a unit -- and we were the other unit. They got along well too, which we know is a blessing.
And when we moved, which we did a few times -- to Hong Kong, to Italy, to the U.S. -- they always went through the upheaval together, had each other to lean on.
Now, my older son has moved, yet again, but he's missing his life-long sidekick.
For us, too, it's harder, because you don't worry when there's two of them as much. They entertain each other. They go out together. They wile away hours playing games. All alone is a different story.
He's been feeling it too, I think, all the way across the Atlantic in Charleston.
We've been calling him a lot, all three of us, all wanting to talk to him.
He remarked the other day on how he was the only one left in the States, wondering if he should come here too after he graduates next May.
Because that's the way it always was. The two of them -- and the two of us.
We've been planning his Christmas break visit. He's coming for two weeks in December.
But he wants to be back by New Year's, to spend with his college friends, which makes sense.
My oldest is so excited that he's coming. And I know he wishes he was staying more than two weeks.
We're going to be squished in here like sardines.
But it doesn't matter -- to them, anyway. I, instead, yearn for my old space.
I overheard my oldest telling his brother on the phone last night how much he was looking forward to him coming.
It's still two months away though.

More Working for the Man

I hate to admit it, but working for the man gives you a purpose in life.
It's as simple -- and as stupid -- as that.
Just gives you something to do. Something to get up for. Get dressed for. Go out for.
Unexpectedly got a few more days work at my freelance job. Trying to build it up to at least two weeks a month -- half the time. That may not be enough financially -- especially since my son lives with us now and is unemployed.
He's got the six-week (unpaid) internship coming up soon, and then after that, he'll have to get anything he can find to make some money.
But back to me.
Working half the time, two weeks a month, sounds kinda nice time-wise, if we can swing it financially.
Or do I need more?
London is so damned expensive. I hate that.
It's a great city, but just chock-a-block with places where you want to spend money. Like New York, you need money to live well here. And like New York, a lot of people look like they have serious money here.
Besides the cash, I just feel better, more energized, on the days I have to get up and go to work.
Gotta get dressed. Do my hair and make-up.
Ride my bike to the Tube, run up the stairs at the station, walk to the office at the other end.
And the office is in a cool part of town, just off Regent and Oxford Streets, at the top of Carnaby Street, that old sixties hang-out.
Today, it was brilliantly sunny -- like it can oddly be here at times -- so I walked the old narrow streets full of shops, pubs, cafes and people at lunchtime.
And then being at the office, you end up having a half-dozen interesting conversations with people during the day.
One woman told me about a fabulous weekend she just had at a resort in Egypt. Really cheap deals to great hotels in Egypt now, apparently. Only a couple hours by plane.
Not to mention the exercise your brain gets stringing words together all day long.
Got on the Tube at night. Even managed to snag a seat. Which does not happen often in the evening.
The Evening Standard, the afternoon paper, is free now (amazing), so they just hand it to you at the station as you're walking in. Much better than the old free rag.
So yeah, I'll have a Standard. Thank you kindly, sir.
Commuting. With the throngs.
It can be a slog here.
But it's probably worth it. In every way.

Sleep-overs of the past

My son has had his high school friend, who's touring England with his band, over to spend the night the last two nights. With the other members of the band.
All three of them in our tiny living room. With my son in the spare room.
Yesterday, before I went to work, I heard the alarm ring in the living room, so I knew my son's friend, who I wanted to say hello to, was up. I knocked on the door after a few minutes, when I heard rustling, before getting ready to leave the house. To say a quick hi, good luck with his London concert, and bye.
I wasn't expecting the other two guys there too. Two of them on the futon mattress, which they had put on the floor. The other one stretched out on the sofa, huddled under a little throw we have. All crowded in, sandwiched in between the too much furniture we have in there.
It was like something out of middle school. But with a lot less room.
They came in at about 2 a.m. both nights, my son said, and then stayed up in the living room talking for awhile, before crashing.
One of my neighbor's bedrooms is right under our living room. I hope they didn't bother them. Never had to worry about bothering anyone when my sons had all their friends over in our basement.
It was great to see my son's friend -- and his friends too. I'm so proud of him, that he has a band, that he's touring the UK. He's a very talented young guy.
And it was like the old days, having him spend the night.
Our house was always the house the boys came to.
I just wish I had the room I used to have.
But most of all, I wish they weren't leaving today.
My son's had a lot of fun with them the last couple of days, I can tell.
Last night, he went to their concert up in Camden, in north London, which he said was really cool.
I bet.
I wish this boy, now a man, but to me always one of the little boys who used to hang out in my basement, wasn't leaving the UK tomorrow.
He's got one last concert tonight in Brighton, and then that's it.
Maybe he'll get another tour next year, he told my son.
Maybe he'll come back to London next year.
That seems like a long way off.
It made my son happy to have him around.
And it felt like the old days, when he had friends -- and a full life.
The easy old days.

Love Actually

Oh. My. God. You're not going to believe who I saw tonight. Up close. For a long time.
Colin Firth.
Love Actually. Mamma Mia. Girl with a Pearl Earring. Genova.
That Colin Firth.
Right near me. While he waited for take-away sushi at our local, teensy sushi place (really good). Just leaned up against the wall, waiting, for several minutes. All Colin Firth of him.
So cool. Taller than I would have thought. Tall and lean. So cute.
I guess he lives around here. I think I read somewhere that he does. Actually. Love Actually.
He looked at me. He saw that I recognized him.
I smiled. He smiled slightly.
Sounded just like himself when he talked to the guy he was with, or said thank you for the sushi to the waitress.
He was with an Italian guy, who talked to him in Italian.
You could see he understood, but then couldn't keep up completely, so answered back in English. His companion continued talking to him in Italian.
I read that when he filmed the film Genova, he lived in the Italian city for several months with the young girls who played his daughters in the film.
Loved that film.
Does Colin Firth need someone for Italian conversation?
Because, if he does, I know just the girl.
Oh. My. God. I love Colin Firth.
He lives in my neighborhood?

Old folks pilates

I'm at two ends of the age spectrum these days.
There's work, where the majority of people are in their late '20s or early '30s, and I'm definitely one of the oldest.
And now there's yoga and pilates at my charity, where everyone is at least 60, and I'm definitely one of the youngest.
A woman who befriended me today at pilates is close to 80, I'm pretty sure.
A crisp sunny autumn day in Chelsea at the charity that does the cheap exercise classes for the over-50 set.
Today was pilates for £1.25.
Rode my bike to the Tube stop, ran up the long stairs at the station and walked briskly the 10 minutes the other end in Chelsea from the station to the stately historic building that houses the charity. Felt good to move.
Got there early because they said the class was popular.
Struck up a conversation with a lovely older British woman with neat silver hair wearing a pink overcoat with a pink scarf over fitted black track suit bottoms. She was early for the pilates class too.
She told me the building where the classes are held used to be the old baths of the tall historic building with the long gleaming windows next door, which with our building, forms a large, l-shaped brick complex in the heart of Chelsea.
Pilates was fun. The class was good. The teacher, cute, chirpy, but middle-aged, thank god, paid attention to us all, because we were old. Watched our posture closely, like in the yoga class last week.
I liked that.
Small class. No frills.
I had never done Pilates before. So I needed that.
And hell, I'm kinda old now too.
Is 55 old?
It's not young, is it?
After the class, went to the cafe run by the charity, staffed by people with developmental disabilities, to have something to eat. Got a nice mac and cheese and salad plate for £3.25 -- cheap as hell for London. Sun streamed through the clean-as-can-be windows of the cafe, a glassed conservatory.
The woman I had chatted with before the class was there with two other women from the class.
They invited me to join them.
It was lovely.
One of them walked with me to the Tube stop afterwards.
She was 70, she told me. Only 15 years older than me. A blink of an eye, really.
Tomorrow I go do a day at my freelance job, where everyone is young and fresh, just starting out on their lives.
I'm glad I got some exercise with my fellow old ladies today.
Makes me feel stronger.

Hanging out

My son and I are hanging out together here now, neither of us with much of a life. My husband's been working.
I've got the stirrings of a life. My one week's work a month -- a day next week and then nothing for a couple weeks, though.
I found that yoga class -- and the place that does it, the gorgeous charity in Chelsea, also does a cheap Pilates class on Mondays I want to try next week.
I went out with my London friend and two other ladies to an Indian tapas restaurant in the West End this week.
And I've got my dividing-her-time girlfriend in town from Paris to meet up with tomorrow afternoon. So there are some "bits and bobs," as they say here. (I love that expression).
My son doesn't have a whole lot at the moment, poor love. But he's staying positive.
He has one very exciting thing coming up -- a 6-week internship at the television company where I'm freelancing. They have a big internship program there, with a constantly rotating half-dozen interns starting every six weeks, so he applied when he got here, and luckily, because of a cancellation I think, got a place in one starting at the end of this month, which is quite soon for them.
So he's excited about that. And it gives him something to look forward to.
But it's still aways away.
He'll meet people there, though. We've heard the interns can become a group and hang out together a bit. He needs to meet some kids his own age.
It'll be a bit odd to go to work together, even if it is just for a week -- or two maybe, depending on how my freelance week overlaps with his internship.
In the meantime, we've been hanging out together a lot.
Which must be weird for him. Hanging out with his mother a lot all of a sudden after five years at college.
My husband's got a few days off soon, so they'll hang out together then too.
Next week, my son's high school friend is in town for another couple days, which is fabulous. He's a musician, in a band playing a gig in Camden, back-up to a bigger band at a concert. My son's really excited about that. He's going to get him a back-stage pass. So that's a couple days.
He and I are thinking of going to Italy for a week maybe, to pass some time before the internship, and to check in on that job he's trying to get. Don't know if that'll help or hurt. Take a cheap flight (they actually are cheaper now) and decamp to our side of the hill for awhile.
This afternoon, though, we're going to go catch a movie in the West End. I think we'll take a double-decker bus down there and sit on the top.
That should be fun.
And we've got time. All the time in the world.
It's a sunny weekend afternoon. Hundreds of people on the High Street here, doing their Saturday thing, shopping, having breakfast with friends, picking up the newspaper, a bunch of flowers from the stand on the corner.
Will this ever feel like home to my son?
Or to me?

Yoga and charity

What a difference a sunny day makes. And a gorgeous neighborhood like Chelsea. And a fantastic deal -- a yoga class for £1.25.
May have finally found a yoga class in London that I like. Especially for the price.
The Brits are just amazing at charities. Nobody does a charity like a Brit.
I found a charity called Open Age that operates a center in Chelsea, one of the nicest neighborhoods of London -- and only a few Tube stops away on my same line -- with all kinds of cheap classes for people over 50.
Some of the people hanging out at the center may have been closer to 80, but who cares? It was nice.
First of all, the building was bloody gorgeous, as a British friend of mine likes to say when something is just, well, freakin' gorgeous.
A centuries-old brick building built around a courtyard with an orangery, where the center had put a cafe.
Sun streamed in through the gleaming old windows of the center's foyer when I walked in.
The Brits have the biggest, cleanest windows of any nation, I think. It's so they can let in as much unfiltered sun as possible when the sun finally does come out. The Italians have little windows they can completely shade -- to keep the sun out.
Fresh vegetables were laid out in baskets for sale on a quaint little table in the foyer. Fresh flowers were dotted around. The two women behind the desk could not have been more pleasant.
And all they wanted from me was £1.25. They gently asked if I minded filling out a short membership form, so they could keep their funding, they said. No membership fee though. And they were so appreciative when I said sure -- and then actually did it.
The class was good too. The teacher was a lot more attentive than other classes I've been to in London, checking postures, not rushing, and concentrating on the breathing. Only half a dozen people in the class. Some elderly.
Just fine. Haven't done yoga since we left our house, over a year now. Not feeling that flexible these days.
Class a bit barebones maybe. No lights turned down, no clanging golden gongs to finish you off with, no candles or incense, but same principles of yoga nevertheless. My legs are sore now from holding the poses, which is good.
After the class, I had a cappuccino in the cafe, staffed by people with learning disabilities the sign said, and then walked around the tidy sun-lit streets of Chelsea. Through the stunningly beautiful Duke of York barracks, where the Saatchi modern art gallery is.
A group of young British boys in school uniforms kicked a soccer ball around the expansive lawn in front of the gallery. Dozens of people sat outside in the sun sipping cappuccinos and tea at the museum's outdoor cafe, faces pointed toward the sun, reading their newspapers or chatting amiably.
The sun glistened off all the big, clean windows of the row upon row of cute little attached houses, many with flowering plants out front.
Bloody gorgeous, the whole lot.
Came home. My son's out. So pleased he's outside somewhere enjoying this day.
Ommmm.

The Eldest

Kids. They keep you honest. They keep you moving. They keep you eating.
Even when they're 23 years old. They're still your kids.
It's a jolt -- a flash back to the past. He hasn't lived with us for a long time.
Even more, though, I wonder what it's like for him.
Just finished college. Not clear what he's going to do with his life.
Smart, used to working, used to being really busy. Was working two jobs his last period in college, had a million friends, was in college, played several sports.
Doesn't know anything about England, or London, even though his dad is British. Even though his first 7 years of schooling were in the British system, first in Hong Kong and then in Italy where his dad and I worked.
Even though he was born in this city, in a big NHS hospital overlooking Hampstead Heath two days before Christmas 1985. On a rare London day, a day that a light blanket of snow fell.
So this has gotta to be a really big thing for him.
Even more than for us.
He's moved to where he was born, a place he knows about only in elementary school books, a place he's visited less than half a dozen times in his life.
A place that's been important, though, because that's where his dad is from.
Which was never a small thing.
Every time my husband opened his mouth in the States, someone asked him where he was from.
Everyone always loved that he was British.
I'm sure my son loves that about him too.
And now he might get a glimpse of what that actually means.

The Power of Tea

Didn't know what was going on in the beginning.
People at my freelance job would routinely bring out several cups of tea from the kitchen there to distribute among colleagues on the desk.
At first, I thought it was just the interns currying favor. No intern would venture near the kitchen area without asking everyone seated anywhere near them if they wanted a cup of something. Mostly tea.
Then I realized it was everybody, not just the interns.
Any time anyone went near the kitchen, they first asked everyone if they wanted something.
I always said no, thank you, nursing the cup of coffee I had gotten myself in the morning.
I mean, in the newsroom I used to work in, nobody ever asked anyone if they wanted anything, or brought anyone anything.
Sometimes as a treat, someone would pick up a dozen donuts in the morning, or half-dozen bagels, or something. But that was a rarity, an occasion, a birthday, a Pulitzer Prize.
Here, it's happening several times a day. Every day.
And everyone always answers yes -- one sugar, no sugar, milk, no milk, weak, strong, whatever their specific desire is.
And out it comes.
Wow.
I started to feel like a real scrooge there with my own cup of coffee. Never asking anyone if they wanted anything.
I asked someone on the desk what was going on.
He laughed and told me a story.
An American had come over for awhile to work there (it is an American company, after all, but mostly filled with young Brits), and noticed the same thing I noticed.
You can't help but notice it. People are literally walking around several times a day with three cups of tea in each hand.
He told the visitor -- and me -- that it's a tradition here in the workplace. People make stuff for each other, mostly tea.
He said the American visitor thought it was just so quaint, so British, that he asked if he could take a picture of someone walking with all the tea to show his friends back home.
Tea is the answer to anything that ails you here.
One day early on when I locked myself out of my apartment here, I knocked on my neighbor's door downstairs, looking bereft, not knowing how to get in, looking for advice, or friendship, or something.
"You need a cup of tea, luv," she said to me, tenderly. "Come inside and I'll brew some."

Sunday football

Watched football yesterday. Typical Sunday afternoon really.
Except we watched it on my husband's lap-top set up on the kitchen table. 'Cause we watched American football. Like you do on Sundays. Like we used to on Sundays in the fall.
Except we're here now. And there is no American football. At least not the team our son wanted to watch.
So he got up and made it his mission of the day to figure out where he and his Dad could watch our old home team, the Washington Redskins, play. It took him hours to figure it out, but he found a place on the Internet they could pay to watch it.
Even though he'd be the first to admit the Redskins suck now.
But still, that's what he wanted to do.
He put on his Redskins jersey, like he always did on game days.
He forgot other stuff back in Washington where he was staying. But he remembered his Clinton Portis jersey.
It broke my heart watching him sit here in our kitchen in London with his Redskins jersey on, watching American TV on the Internet. It felt wrong.
They had fun though. The Redskins won, so they were happy, whooping it up, cheering.
I worried we were making too much noise for our downstairs neighbors.
We had dinner.
After the game was over, we just kept watching, all of us transfixed.
It felt so familiar, the sound of American television. The sound of fall in the States.
No country does fall like the U.S.
All of a sudden, my husband must've realized what we were all doing -- how comfortable we felt doing it, how familiar it was to all of us, him included.
He turned it off and switched on the BBC World Service instead.
I could be wrong, but it felt to me like we all wanted more America. Even him.
Not surprising. It was home for so long.
But now, it's not. Not even for my son anymore.
By a wonderful fluke, a good high school friend of his is in town tomorrow. He's in a band and they're touring England.
My son's going to meet him.
Thank God.
Tomorrow, I won't have a broken heart.

Sick...again

Sorry I haven't written in a couple days, but I've been getting sick...again. Now, today, Saturday, I'm just plain old sick. And my son arrived this morning from the States -- to live with us for awhile.
Another fever, and cough, with a cold this time too. Started with a sore throat. My husband had it too, the last few days we were in Italy, and so did a guest just before him.
Nobody had the swine flu first though. Just saying.
I'm just catching everything anybody happens to bring by these days.
Is my body trying to tell me something? Has it all just been too much for this old bod?
That's what the shrinks would tell you, when you've gotten as sick as I have twice in the past six weeks. In the summer.
I mean, I haven't been sick like this in years. Can't even remember when.
Or is it just new germs here in Europe, microbes I hadn't been exposed to living in the States for the past dozen years?
I've found that before when I've moved actually, that I would get sick a lot in the first year. I always put that down to catching new bugs. Might have read that somewhere, sometime, don't know for sure. Always reading random stuff in random places.
Anyway, sick.
It really hit me yesterday afternoon -- at work, of course.
The Friday night ride home on the packed Tube was excruciating. Had a fever. Just wanted to get there already, and lie down.
Or even sit down.
At one point, I did squeeze in behind this one guy to get a seat on the Piccadilly line, kinda, sorta pushing him gently out of the way. I excused myself, told him I felt sick, needed a seat. Clutched my kleenex.
He was nice.
How many people did I give my new sickness to on the Tube then?
I've heard a few people coughing this past week on the Tube -- and wondered that precise thing.
Ohmigod.
Is this going to be the winter of sick?
Anyway, anyway.
My son's here. Incredible.
He's sleeping in the spare room -- his room now -- with all his stuff stacked up around him after his overnight flight from Washington.
My husband went out to get some makings for breakfast for when he wakes up. Don't want my son to get sick now too. He's the one I think gave me the swine flu, so he's been sick already, like me.
Sick or not, this is a colossal moment in time. Monumental actually.
Our son has just given up his life in the States to live here with us in London.
Do they sell Sudafed here?