London on two wheels

London is best appreciated -- slowly, I'll give you that -- on two wheels.
It's a joy to go cycling here: flat as a pancake, lots of big, green parks, plenty of cute little side streets with tidy rowhouses, dedicated bike lanes, and drivers, although not perfect, about as polite as you'll get anywhere on the planet.
Flat as a pancake is the big thing.
You're just not scared to go anywhere here, because basically, you know you're not going to be confronted with any big hills along the way.
So off you go.
It was really hilly where we used to live on the outskirts of Washington. Even though at the bottom of the big big hill where we lived, there was a beautiful long flat bike path that went on for miles and miles.
Because of that big steep hill, though, we only biked along that glorious bike path there a couple of times.
Which sounds immensely pathetic, I know.
We did go walking there a lot, up the hills, through the paths, along the Potomac River. With our beloved dog, Lucy.
I could miss that a lot if I thought about it.
Not much cycling, though.
Here, cycling is becoming our best leisure activity.
We don't have Lucy to walk anymore.
And on these long British summer evenings, where it doesn't get dark until past 10 p.m. here, there's nothing nicer than a long bike ride, we're finding.
Over and around the 18th century historic house and magnificent gardens I was telling you about. That they just restored.
What a place. It's huge.
It's not only us, I see.
As I was coming back with my morning newspaper this morning, my retired elderly neighbor whizzed past, on quite a flash mountain bike, the wind coursing through his white hair.
And I met a young mother at my favorite hang-out place the other day that runs a website selling chic cycle accessories. Doing well, she said.
Our new two-wheeled obsession has meant my husband has again turned to one of his pet London subjects: Getting me onto a Vespa.
He thinks it would be a great way for me to get around London.
Vespas can go in the bus lanes here. They don't have to pay the central congestion charge to go downtown. You can park them almost anywhere. They're fuel-efficient. It would be much easier to commute. They'll teach you everything here in a two-day course. After I learn here with all the sane British drivers, maybe we could get one for our little Italian town, which would be convenient. I need transportation here sometimes and I don't feel like buying a car. I would look cute on one. I'd have fun. So Italian, for chrissakes!
He's got lots of reasons.
I like the idea.
But I'm scared too.

The Grocery Store

Are you home when you know your way around your grocery store?
Or when you know which grocery store to go to?
It helps.
I remember when I first got here, I had no idea where to shop -- for even the most basic things.
Not to mention what doctor to go to (still working on all that), where to get my hair done (also still a work in progress), where to get a coffee (nailed that), the drugstore, anything actually.
I was so disoriented.
There are four grocery stores within walking distance of me, not to mention smaller specialty stores, like butchers, a fishmonger, bakeries (including the new Gail's), a dozen or more hairdressers (very lucrative business here), etc.
You get the idea.
I figured out quickly that the biggest grocery store was where I wanted to do most of my shopping. All the smaller ones have things I pop in for now and again.
I remember one day at the big supermarket early on being confronted by dozens of new brands of laundry soap in new configurations I had never seen (they're big on gel cap-like-thingies here that you put in with your wash).
I felt like crying. I did cry, I think.
Had spent 10 minutes looking for laundry soap in the big store.
Then had no idea what the hell to buy once I got there.
No to mention no dryer to finish off the wash.
Missed my old grocery store like hell that day.
Getting used to a lot now.
Know which laundry gel cap I like (they're actually pretty convenient).
Have learned to live without a dryer.
And a car.
And a big house.
Welcome Home!

Where are you on the foxes?

The fox attack has brought everybody out, for and against.
The papers have been full of London's fox problem, or lack thereof, depending on what side you're on. Editorials, letters to the editor, news stories.
First, there was the mother, who said the attack on her twin daughters had been life-altering, especially for one.
God. What a thought.
To be bitten in the face by a fox, in a life-altering way, while you're lying in your cot.
There was speculation the fox was attracted to the smell of shit in the diaper. Or the sound babies make when they're sleeping.
Some people wrote saying the fox were vermin that needed to be culled. And this attack showed this.
Then there was the discussion about whether previous culls have worked (seems not).
Others wrote saying this is the first serious fox attack -- ever. And do people threaten to cull dogs when there's a dog attack? (of which, I guess there are thousands compared to this one fox attack.)
That living with the foxes was one of the special things about London.
Which is what I had thought.
Before all this.
I still like them. But I'm scared of them too.

Fox Reality

Bad news on the foxes, folks.
Not just cute and nostalgia-inducing.
Big story here about a fox that mauled two twin babies in their cots in their upstairs bedroom while they slept. Very rare for a fox.
It came in -- one story said attracted to the noise babies make while sleeping -- through an open window.
It's been warm here, so everyone's had their windows and back doors open.
We have too.
We always have our bedroom window open.
There are 10,000-20,000 foxes in London, I've read; 27 per square mile, I heard on the radio.
The last attack by a fox was years ago though. They usually just run away from bigger humans.
But they're becoming bolder, the stories say.
The distraught mother of the twins (can you imagine?) says she confronted the fox -- she and her husband were watching TV downstairs while the babies slept upstairs with a window open -- when she ran upstairs when her twin girls started crying.
Fox just stared her down, she said, not moving.
Not scared at all.
That's scary.
Stories quoted neighbors saying they run across foxes in their gardens a lot and that the foxes are everywhere.
A bit like here.
We did surprise a fox in our garden one night.
It ran away right away.
We thought it was kinda cute at the time.
Now not so sure.
I love having my kitchen door open, though, opening on to our cute little south-facing garden. Especially when the sun is shining.
But the trash is in the kitchen, so that must be a draw.
If any foxes are around.
Which they are.
I can see one now on the roof of the big wood shed in the old lumberyard directly in front of us.
Oh well.
It's drizzling and grey now though.
And they say it's staying that way for the week.
So the door's shut.
I wish the cute foxes hadn't done that.

When the Sun Comes Out

When the sun is shining, and it's warm, this country could be one of the best on earth. At least this city.
The sun was out all last week.
It's gone now. It's gonna rain all week.
So before I forget, I gotta tell you about it.
Went for two long afternoon bike rides around the neighborhood when the sun was out. Down by the River Thames and cruising around all our nearby parks.
We've got this rambling historical property near here -- an 18th century Royal house and gardens -- that is simply astounding.
They've just completed a multi-million-pound renovation of the house and gardens too.
It's all just pristine now.
Like only the English can do.
The lawns a carpet of green, the hedges perfectly trimmed, the flowers in harmonious symphony.
And everyone's in a great mood when the sun's out, everyone outside in every combination, doing everything you can think of. Most people live in small places here, so they gather on the greens when the sun comes out.
Which are all beautifully maintained.
And there's lots of them in London.
Women strip down to their underwear to get a bit of sun; guys throw frisbees; families play football. Dogs run without leashes. Kids romp around.
It is so chill.
Nothing like this in Italy.
The councils wouldn't keep up the greens, the Italians wouldn't pick up after their dogs, so many reasons this can't exist there.
And in the States, everyone lives far from each other, and goes everywhere by car. People don't gather together like here.
And they're so many rules there.
Chill, it's not.
London is an urban planner's dream.
Live, shop, play, all nearby.
If only the sun would come out more.

Southern Graduation

And then there's my younger son, who's still in the States.
He just graduated from college. That's why we were in the States.
College is over. No more kids in college. End of an era.
So many end of eras lately.
Too many for one heart.
It was a lovely graduation. The guys wore white tuxes with red roses; the girls white dresses with red rose corsages. They all looked so fresh, so young, so full of potential.
It was held outside, surrounded by the long mosses and weeping willows of Charleston. Hot as hell; we all had paper fans.
The Deep South. No mistaking that.
It was held outside the college's old cistern -- a ceremony taking advantage of the school's historic setting in one of the U.S.'s oldest and most beautiful towns.
Nice.
My son's happy there. He skipped around all over the place. He's had a good four years there. Knows everybody.
We're so proud of him.
So happy he's happy.
He's staying for awhile, another year at this point, he says. Living with buddies. Working his two jobs, one an entry-level job in the field he studied.
He's excited to try and make it on his own, pay for everything himself, be a grown-up.
And Charleston's a good place to be for what he studied. It's a great little place, Charleston. No denying that.
Of course, we all wish he'd come somewhere near here though. Although we try not to say it.
London? Rome? Me, my husband, and my older son.
Just to have him close.
To make things feel whole again.
That's just selfish, though. He's happy there. Doesn't know anybody here.
And as he has said, so rightly: YOU'RE THE ONES WHO MOVED.
No denying that.
I'm glad he's not going back to where we used to live. I think I'd miss him more then, knowing I could've been there too.
He's coming to Europe for a long time this summer.
First with some buddies -- like my older son did last year. The 'ol end-of-college, go-round-Europe, try-not-to-get-robbed-in-Barcelona trip.
And then some time with his family on our side of the hill in Italy.
So we'll all be together again soon.
Like when they were little.
Which will feel good.

Napoli via London

The best thing, hands down, about our move back to Europe has been that my eldest son has come too.
When I look back after the past 15 months, I'm not sure I would've made it without him.
In fact, I'm pretty certain I wouldn't have.
The fact that he's here too makes a massive difference.
He came last fall, twenty-three years old, left everything in the States -- friends, car, jobs, roots -- a few months after graduating from college, and moved into our spare room in London.
Which made sense, since he was our kid.
But he had no life here, knew no one.
So I fretted.
Got an internship here, had the time of his life.
Even made some buddies. Loves to come back.
Then he got another internship in Rome in the new year.
We moved him there.
When I look back on the day he and I arrived at our side of the hill in Italy -- January 6, a national holiday there -- it feels like light years ago.
Our place was way too far for him to live in, we realized suddenly. But where would he live? His internship was starting in a week and a half. Our usually sunny, warm house felt like a meat locker.
January in central Italy. Instead of July.
Reality.
Four months have gone by since then. Only? Feels like four years.
Don't want to tempt fate, but his internship looks like it's going to turn into a job.
Most importantly, though, my son likes his new life. Christ, he's got a new life to like.
He's made friends.
Yesterday, he was in Naples, where I was born.
At a company overlooking the port. Sounds like he was working right near the hospital where I was born.
I was born, 56 years ago this summer, on a bright hot day, in a hospital room overlooking the Mediterranean off Naples, an amazingly beautiful seaside city. No wonder I love the sea.
I was born a couple of weeks early, on a day my parents were supposed to go to Capri on the ferry with my grandparents for a day in the sun. No wonder I'm a sun-worshipper.
Fast-forward 56 years to yesterday afternoon and my son.
Who's in Naples overlooking the port. On his computer.
He sends me an email saying it may be the most beautiful place he's ever seen. Took some pictures on his cellphone for me to see, but they don't do it justice, he wrote.
He's seen this amazing place -- where I was born, where my father's family is from, where my mother's family ended up, where my own family lived before we moved to the States, through his own adult eyes, at work, unfiltered by me.
And he's realized how amazing it is.
My son has moved to Italy at the same age I moved to Italy after growing up in the United States.
Is that a coincidence?
My Italian parents moved to Washington from Italy when I was three years old. At twenty-four, soon after I finished college, I moved back to Italy too. To discover who I was.
My parents weren't there, but friends of theirs were. I stayed with them when I first arrived.
My son came because we were here.
Why were we here?
Soon after I arrived in Italy when I was 24, I met my British husband, who was also there, working, from England.
Where we are now.
Last night, my son went out with his new Italian buddy on the back of the guy's Vespa, riding around Rome by night.
God I loved that when I was his age.
We worried. That's dangerous.
"But we did it," I said to my husband.

Retail Therapy

I know this is one of my favorite subjects about London, so please excuse me if I'm boring you, but it is truly astounding.
My God, the Brits are a nation of shopkeepers.
Especially compared to the US, where nobody even gives it a second thought. (Too risky, not enough money, way way too much competition from big-box stores.) Cities not conducive to shopping is the no. 1 reason though.
Here, at least three new shops have opened up on the High Road and surrounding streets around us (within a couple miles, let's say. Like I told you, the High Road goes on as long as a piece of string here).
It's the new upmarket artisan bakery that really stands out for me though. And the bistro. But let's do the bakery.
Gail's.
Took a big, prime, corner position on the High Road.
Can't even remember what was there before now.
Gorgeous store. Completely done already. Looks like it's been there for years.
Big deep baskets full of freshly-baked bread loaves of all shapes and sizes in the tall gleaming front windows, which are painted red. Gail's has a red theme.
Cute wood tables and chairs with red gingham cushions and cloths.
Full of people already. Families with strollers. Friends chatting over lattes and pastries.
When did Gail's come into being?
In the two weeks, okay maybe three weeks tops, that I haven't been to that corner?
Were lots of industrious people scurrying around planning Gail's while I was at my son's graduation and then in Florida on the beach?
But I hardly got a tan.
Wow.
It's the speed with which they can put together an established-looking store here that astounds me. The sheer optimism of their shop-keeping.
I worry for the new butcher's, though.
Remember last time I was away, a gleaming new butcher opened up right next to the bus stop, which is right across the street from Gail's. (Busy location). We all know butchers are suffering because of supermarkets.
But there it was. Like Gail's, looked like it had been there a decade or so.
For a few weeks, the butcher was full of people too. And four guys in big white butcher hats smiling behind the counter.
Today, there was nobody there.
And only one guy with the hat on. Barely smiling.
Uh oh. Could close soon.
But not for long, I'm thinking.