Saw what divides Italy and Britain so vividly today.
Commuting in on the Tube, there was an announcement that the escalators at the Piccadilly Circus station were out, the station I use for work.
Ohmigod, chaos.
I thought of the two really long, steep escalators at the station there. And all the people, some of whom might not be able to walk up all those stairs, I worried.
And still in an Italy mind-set.
I even considered getting off at another station, but we were only a station away when I heard the announcement.
Got off at Piccadilly Circus.
Really orderly procession -- aided by London Transport staff positioned in key areas along the way -- through an alternate exit there. With not as many stairs.
Everyone behind each other, respecting their distances, moving slowly, but deliberately through the detour.
Until we get to a smaller escalator at the end.
It was full of people, laughing, talking loudly.
They weren't lined up on the right side of the escalator, letting those in a hurry walk up the stairs to the left -- like is customary on the Tube.
Then I heard the Italian voice, the teacher talking to the group of Italian teens crowded all over the stairs.
"Keep right," she said, loudly, to be heard over the din.
"Here, people stay to the right in a line and let others go up the left," she said, sorta laughing. "Move to the right."
Most of the kids moved to the right side.
But not all.
It was like taming a herd of wild animals.
You couldn't get them all.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Monday, 2 November 2009
So Many People
One of the most striking differences between living in London and living in Washington is that here, you're living next door to all of humanity -- in all its life stages. In the States, you're much more segregated, always with your tribe of the time. In most places anyway.
In our neighborhood here, in west London, there's everyone pretty much. Suburban families, with kids in strollers up through secondary school. Older people, either couples or singles, living alone. Young people just starting out on their lives sharing flats.
Not to mention from every country. Americans. French. Polish. Italian. Middle Eastern. British, even. Colin Firth even. All right here. All ages of them.
In downtown Washington, where we lived for the last six months we were in the States, we were surrounded by young people. Our neighbors were mostly young adults in their late 20s or early 30s, just starting out on their careers, sharing apartments with others like them.
Washington has become THE place for East Coast kids just out of college to start their careers, since the job situation is better there than many other cities in the U.S. The federal government and all that.
And the neighborhood we were in attracted lots of young people, more and more each year.
It was nice -- lively, noisy, especially after the suburbs. But we felt old there. Didn't really fit in.
Before, for a dozen years while we were raising our boys, we lived in the quiet suburbs of Washington, where lots of other people were doing exactly the same thing as us. Raising kids in the suburbs.
Where the public schools were good. And there was room to play. And it felt safe.
But we outgrew that. Our kids grew up anyway.
New, younger families started to move in.
I like that there's such a mix of people and ages here -- that everyone lives together in the same neighborhood.
That's what American urban planners are trying so hard to achieve these days.
I just wish I had more of a connection to them.
In our neighborhood here, in west London, there's everyone pretty much. Suburban families, with kids in strollers up through secondary school. Older people, either couples or singles, living alone. Young people just starting out on their lives sharing flats.
Not to mention from every country. Americans. French. Polish. Italian. Middle Eastern. British, even. Colin Firth even. All right here. All ages of them.
In downtown Washington, where we lived for the last six months we were in the States, we were surrounded by young people. Our neighbors were mostly young adults in their late 20s or early 30s, just starting out on their careers, sharing apartments with others like them.
Washington has become THE place for East Coast kids just out of college to start their careers, since the job situation is better there than many other cities in the U.S. The federal government and all that.
And the neighborhood we were in attracted lots of young people, more and more each year.
It was nice -- lively, noisy, especially after the suburbs. But we felt old there. Didn't really fit in.
Before, for a dozen years while we were raising our boys, we lived in the quiet suburbs of Washington, where lots of other people were doing exactly the same thing as us. Raising kids in the suburbs.
Where the public schools were good. And there was room to play. And it felt safe.
But we outgrew that. Our kids grew up anyway.
New, younger families started to move in.
I like that there's such a mix of people and ages here -- that everyone lives together in the same neighborhood.
That's what American urban planners are trying so hard to achieve these days.
I just wish I had more of a connection to them.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
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?
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?
Friday, 28 August 2009
The New Generation
The working world belongs to the young. At least my new working world does.
Most of the people at my freelance office here in London, a television company, are around 30 years old, give or take a few years.
Which is kinda fun, but also scary. They're all cool, and really techy.
I feel really old, but my husband says it's good for me. I'll learn a lot. It'll keep me sharp.
Shut up.
Everyone has been super-friendly and really helpful. They've made me feel welcome. It's a friendlier work environment than my old newspaper, if truth be told.
Most of the employees here are young, hip Brits, but there's some young Americans, too, a smattering of Europeans, and some nomadic types, transplants who have grown up in various parts of the world. An Arab-American woman I was working with today actually spent most of her childhood as a diplomat's daughter in Finland, of all places.
It's a cool work environment, a huge roomful of young, attractive, friendly people. There's a few people more my age, but they're all in the offices with the windows.
I'm in the big room with all the young'uns. I'm not sure I belong there. I have to wear my glasses to see my computer screen.
Don't notice anyone else wearing reading glasses. One cool Spanish dude wears a thick headband over dreadlocks, but haven't seen a single pair of magnifiers.
Yesterday, a young, cute American woman in a belted polka-dotted dress under a short, nipped jacket, smiled and waved at me across the big room, and then laughed as I got closer and said she had mistaken me for someone who's on maternity leave.
Wow. Does that young woman have any idea how long it's been since I was on maternity leave?
Try not to tell anyone.
Most of the people at my freelance office here in London, a television company, are around 30 years old, give or take a few years.
Which is kinda fun, but also scary. They're all cool, and really techy.
I feel really old, but my husband says it's good for me. I'll learn a lot. It'll keep me sharp.
Shut up.
Everyone has been super-friendly and really helpful. They've made me feel welcome. It's a friendlier work environment than my old newspaper, if truth be told.
Most of the employees here are young, hip Brits, but there's some young Americans, too, a smattering of Europeans, and some nomadic types, transplants who have grown up in various parts of the world. An Arab-American woman I was working with today actually spent most of her childhood as a diplomat's daughter in Finland, of all places.
It's a cool work environment, a huge roomful of young, attractive, friendly people. There's a few people more my age, but they're all in the offices with the windows.
I'm in the big room with all the young'uns. I'm not sure I belong there. I have to wear my glasses to see my computer screen.
Don't notice anyone else wearing reading glasses. One cool Spanish dude wears a thick headband over dreadlocks, but haven't seen a single pair of magnifiers.
Yesterday, a young, cute American woman in a belted polka-dotted dress under a short, nipped jacket, smiled and waved at me across the big room, and then laughed as I got closer and said she had mistaken me for someone who's on maternity leave.
Wow. Does that young woman have any idea how long it's been since I was on maternity leave?
Try not to tell anyone.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Work
Work. Yeah! Damn!
Maybe the universe does answer when you ask.
I'm not sure I asked. In a way, I was just about to turn the corner into hardly caring, but there it is.
Just after I whined to you about what to do, I got an email from the company I worked for in London for a week in June. The last time I left Italy early to go back to London.
Now, they've got two weeks work starting the week after next -- just enough to make going back worthwhile. Flights -- even the cheapo, cheapos from weird airports -- are expensive now, because it's August and plenty of Italians are flying to London.
The Italians love London -- and all things British -- at the moment. Italians love different places at different times, all together. Italians find comfort in doing things together. It keeps them psychologically healthy, too, is my assessment. You're never without your group here. It's not a country for flying solo.
Back to work.
So, I'm going back to London in 10 days for a couple weeks. And then coming back. (I've got a car now, so I HAVE to come back).
This is dividing your time, right? Is this what I was asking the universe?
There's a big part of me that wants to stay here, of course. C'mon. It's the glorious Italian summer vs. the crappy English excuse for one.
A girlfriend suggested I might go down to the Aeolian islands off Sicily with her for a few days to a villa she's rented during that time. Love it down there. And would love to spend a few days with her and her daughter there.
And I've still got lots of errands here. Need my resident parking sticker so I don't have to pay one euro an hour to park down the street from my house, but the place you get them is only open on Saturday mornings from 11:00-11:15 (okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but only by a few minutes, I swear).
And I'm so ashamed to admit I haven't started recycling yet, even though my little town has, because well, I wasn't here to get the special bags you need to put your plastic in and I still haven't gone to get them (tried at the post office, yes, the post office, but they were out). So I'm still driving my trash a few miles down the street to the next town, which is not recycling yet.
That is just so lame. And so Neapolitan.
And I've hardly been alone yet either. To be scared, or happy, or whatever I would be, which I'm really not sure about yet.
My eldest son and his merry band of back-packers left this morning for Florence. I'm only going to see them at the Rome train station next weekend to give them a big suitcase they couldn't carry around with them. Unless they get robbed again, I guess.
And my youngest son is here now until Monday, until he goes back to college for his senior year. So I've actually got to go now.
A closing thought about work.
Even though there's all kinds of good reasons to stay, I have to go, I know. Otherwise they won't want me in the winter, when I will really want them.
And then I have to be honest. It felt good when I saw the email. I was in a good mood all afternoon. And how tanned can one person get, even if they are Italian. (that's a stupid question actually, because the answer is never enough.)
Work. Can't live with it. Can't live without it.
10 more days of lemon-chasing. Stay with me.
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