July 25 - September 5th

Everywhere you look in London, something new is being built. Cranes dominate the skyline and resemble beanstalks growing up from the cracks in the street. One recent count from the panoramic view of the Tate Modern yielded over 35 crane towers. This city is really a unique blend of Christopher Wren's classical style, post-war concrete mistakes and contemporary glass and steel. Although the skyline is rather tame compared to other cities, the style and grace of some of these structures is very well balanced.


One would think airplanes racing above the river Thames would be a fabulous treat for a spectator. But leave it to a corporate entity like Red Bull to lease out and cordon off all public viewing space and charge exorbitant amounts of money for a grandstand ticket. Not to be out done by a sickening energy drink company (whose product, when mixed with Vodka is known as an 'instant asshole') we scoured and discovered a proper viewing spot on a bridge. It was packed shoulder to shoulder with beer drinking locals. So strange to see the cops standing right next to the natives who are pounding beers and just leaving the litter at their feet. Inspiring really. The planes were screaming in at 15 feet above the water flying slaloms between 9 meter tall inflatable cones . The stretch of river they chose to perform the areal acrobatics presented a hugely ironic twist. Located at the center of the course is the O2 Dome, a gigantic white tent with yellow towers poking out at a sixty degree angle. Basically, it looks like resulting offspring if the Denver International Airport had a reckless one night stand with a crane factory. This dome could not be a more formidable structure for aircraft. It literally resembles a fly trap for humans.

In England life really does orbit around the pub. So many of them seem to possess a dual themed name: The Anchor and Hope, the Horse and Coach, the Hand and Scepter, the Fox and Hounds. Almost all of them have an literal picture or symbol out front. The answer to this phenomenon had eluded me until I read that these names originate back to a time when the majority of the clientele were unable to read before they arrived at the pub. The more clear and distinct the sign was to represent pictorially, the easier the customers could remember and return. Strange to think about a whole society having to navigate around a massive city without the aide of literacy.

The commuting life has gradually taken hold of my instincts. There are unwritten rules one must follow which includes not talking on the phone while in the train car. This is obvious on the tube--where it does not work (but you are being bombarded with radiation from every passengers mobile still on and searching for a signal). Eating is usually kept to a minimum and when they do its pretty tidy and discreet. After the peak commute hours all bets are off. So often, a bus or train car is hijacked by little punks with a speakerphone setting on their mobile phone/mp3 player. The polite masses all suffer equally in total silence. For as much as the British love to gripe about the system (British Rail, National Insurance, the weather, the National Football team, Tim Hennman, the weather) no one does anything about the scourge of midday public transport . Much of this silence is just the cultural norm of pressing on in adverse conditions. But some of this silence stems from a fear of the dreaded "hoody". These packs of teenagers wearing hooded sweatshirts purposely board trains and buses looking for trouble (and almost always leave a trail of trash and beer cans behind). When a violent event occurs, the papers and news programs exacerbate the story and contribute to the fear. If these kids tried the same stunt in New York--they would definitely get a talking to.

My new favourite multi-meaning word in England is: Bollocks. Basically, it means 'balls' but not in the "of dough" or "of fire" [great] kind. This is the Anglo-speak for one's own testicles (Margaret Thatcher included, Tony Blair excluded). For example, one could be justified shouting, "bollocks" if one just realized they took the wrong train (again), or filled out a form incorrectly (yet again). Another use is to describe a person lecturing or dressing down another person. For instance, the form I may or may not have filled out correctly could then be used as a reason for the form's handler to, "give me a proper bollocking." Strangely, the third use of this word maintains its obliquely spherical reference, but puts a positive spin on things but in a non-human way. For example, as a co-worker was espousing the attributes of the brand new video game of FIFA soccer on Play Station 57, he said, "It's the dog's bollocks mate!" How does one version invade the lexicon as a way to vent frustration or denote negativity, yet another use likens a dog's testes as the paragon of cool? This causes me great distress, but then I remember reading about American dog owners who pay to have their post-castrated canine receive prosthetic . . .bollocks! Lets not forget the guys who hang a couple of billiards balls in a swimming cap and tie it to the back of their jacked up truck's trailer hitch (strangely, I see these trucks pulling out of Veterinary clinics all the time).

I recently had the honour of viewing the England vs. France Rugby match in a lively pub serving all-you-can-drink-andpayfor-beer. Were it a football (soccer) match, it would be called a 'friendly.' This being Rugby, it was a war. That being said, I am now a firm believer my friend's comment about Football (soccer) vs. Rugby, "Football is a gentleman's game played by thugs and Rugby is a thugs game played by gentlemen." The fans of the two games serve to prove this point. England has a rather infamous history of producing the sporting thugs known as "hooligans". These fanatics are devoted to deviance and disrespect. A watershed in the history of English football hooliganism was the Heysel disaster of 1985, in which a "charge" by Liverpool fans at rival Juventus supporters caused a wall to collapse, resulting in 39 deaths. English teams were banned from European club competitions until 1990. This is not to say that football is not fun to watch in the pubs, its just marked with a different reputation than that of Rugby. Rugby fans may drink as much or more, but they are really respectful and polite. It is truly electrifying to be in a packed pub and hear the whole place erupt in a passionate version of the national anthem. With the advantage of international competition, nations get to add pride and devotion to their resume. The States just gets to call a big baseball match a "world series" by beating up on some hockey rejects from Canada. It really is a shame that Football or Rugby will never be a huge success in the States. My own theory is that these two games share a similar Achilles heel: they operate on a continuous running clock. There is no huddle, planning strategy, chat with the coach . . . Think of all those commercial breaks that will never be shown! Baseball now has obnoxious advertising behind home plate, and I seem to remember Spiderman base pads during one playoff game? The corporate sponsors have weaseled themselves into the sports over here by pasting a logo on the uniforms. No one is safe. With the Rugby World Cup looming, the viewing, atmosphere and international competition will get fierce. Due up this Saturday is the inevitable spanking of the USA rugby team by way of England. I will sing Francis Scott Key's anthem with all my heart just for all of YOU! It being a Rugby match and not football, I will be joked at instead of spit on and beaten to a pulp.


Along with Rugby, the monetary superiority of the Pound Sterling versus the US dollar is also glaring. Thanks to a 2:1 ratio, there will be virtually no visitors for me over here. But here are a few things that may change your minds: We just got our street re-paved. New asphalt folks. Another would be that the Imperial pint carries a hefty 20 oz. while we Americans boast a skimpy 16oz. Think of that $10 dollars going to that extra 4 oz! Mmmmmm, drink it up! Usually it is the US that boasts something bigger and heavier. One of my favorite ways to sum up America's weight problem goes like this: One out of every three Americans weighs more than the other two combined. England is not entirely off the hook here. At least we measure our fat asses in one consistent (inferior) system. They still mix inches with millimeters (much to my profession's confusion). Weight is usually in kilograms, unless talking about personal weight. Most British adults can tell you exactly how many stones they weigh. A "stone" is the representation of 14 pounds--yet they are at a loss to tell you in pounds or kilos. Seems odd, but when you get to describe your personal heft as "twelve and a half" instead of hundred(s) who can blame them. My British friend knows his weight in stone, height in feet and inches, distance in kilometers, speed in mph, liquid by the litre and weeks by fortnights. He couldn't guess any equivalent measurement for the life of him.

We were lucky enough to be invited to a beautiful traditional English Wedding in the nearby countryside of Kent. The church was terribly old and festooned with well-dressed and mannered English wedding guests. The formula is virtually identical to the traditional American event, but with a bit more pomp and tradition thrown in and the church can collapse on your head at any moment. Most of the women sport some impressive hats with plumage galore. The men in the wedding party wear the penguin-tailed coats and fancy pin striped vests and trousers. Every guest has to be met by the bride and groom's family before the reception. This is taken care of in the form of a greeting line. The only thing I could think of was the beginning of a basketball game where they announce every one and high fives are passed around. I started to run out of things to say to all the strange faces, so I just stuck to a patented few and rotated every other person "such lovely weather" and "I like your hat."

Stay tuned for a special posting on our recent holiday to Croatia!

June 26 - July 24

It seems the most popular topic of conversation in London is the complete lack of a summer. Remember those rain delays at Wimbledon? Still raining, with Roger Federer-like intensity. Parts of England have been devastated by flooding. There has been one pleasant weekend for the past month, and pleasant includes a cloudy, drizzling Sunday. The only thing that has managed to camp successfully in England this summer has been the Jet Stream. It has pitched a tent and cracked open a few beers and is content on delivering low pressure systems right on top of us--with no end in sight.
Yet the British are so resolute about it. It is really a defining characteristic of the culture. They press on with very minimal grumbling and manage to throw in some morbidly wounded optimism like, "well at least its not a freezing driving rain, now that would be dreadful." Emily and I just sit there and scream back in our heads, "Are you insane? This is JULY! How could you reasonably expect a freezing rain!" But a quick weather history check reveals some frosty conditions in England in both July and August. I have been quick to remind myself that I did not move over here for the weather.

Emily had the good fortune to attend the Wimbledon tennis tournament. A colleague at work happens to belong to the club (thanks to his grandfather playing professional tennis). She made sure to bring her umbrella and dress as sharp as possible. Her seats were unbelievable on Centre Court just above the players opposite of the "royal box." They were able to view the women's match where Serena Williams encountered muscle cramping and had to battle the pain and hope for the rain to fall (this IS England and the sky soon began to weep). The drama queen managed to squeeze off a few aces and hold serve before the rain came and enabled her to fight another day.


That rare, not-so-rainy weekend did allow me to see South Wales, specifically the Gower peninsula. It is a beautiful land, with an abundance of sheep, rock walls and unspoiled coastline. The Welsh are proud of their unique language, and manage to share English and Welsh words on public road signs. To the untrained ear, it resembles someone delivering a sonnet with a mouth crammed full of peanut butter and habanero chili-dipped marbles. It goes a little something like this, "Wlch ylch rgh ybsy cwm." The aforementioned abundance of sheep and rocks seems to counteract a serious lack of vowels other-than-y. The Wheel of Fortune would have significant problems convincing contestants to purchase an "e" or "i"--perhaps needing to result to coupons (which makes sense considering the target audience). Since every public sign is printed in both English and Welsh, I was tempted to be the Robin Hood of English grammar. Why should one language have so many when others have so few? There is enough animosity between the two cultures and my meddling would only inflame the situation. We will just leave it at dirty sheep farmer jokes and Rugby bragging rights.

Back in London, the pace never relents. Between dodging raindrops, working and commuting home, the evenings are relegated to laundry, house chores and cooking meals. Even in the one of the world's most exciting cities life tends to orbit around the mundane and necessary. Weekends provide the best chance to experience the culture and plan activities. A few weeks ago, Emily and I took in an sculpture exhibit at the Hayward Gallery. This particular artist (Anthony Gormley) situated 27 life-sized bronze statues in, on and around the museum in random places and surprisingly far off the museum's grounds. You can be on the train crossing the Thames and see what appears to be a very tan and very naked man perched on the edge of a tall building. Then you will spy a few more then several of them all over central London. I keep hoping to read about a frustrated police unit attempting to 'talk down' a stubbornly deaf, statuesque jumper. My favorite part of the museum was the gift shop which contained the complete works of the street artist known as BANKSY. His work first started appearing in an area of London called Brick Lane. He creatively alters familiar images and paints them on various walls and billboards. These are just a few of his many clever works that can be found on a Google images search:















His work is endlessly entertaining and while looking through it, I was struck with the same simple kind of satisfaction that Gary Larson delivers with his approach. Good stuff.


On a semi- related topic, banking here ranges from innovative to frustrating. London is arguably the banking and financial capital of the world. They have managed to introduce this fancy looking chip to their debit cards. This chip enables every restaurant and vendor to have hand held, wireless machines that take care of any purchase. Its really brilliant and a nice step forward. Points for innovation that only Apple has managed to duplicate in the States. You can also "top up" your cell phone (mobile) with your ATM card at almost any machine. Very convenient and straightforward. Personal banking and customer service here is another story all together. For instance, you are not able to deposit a check (checque) in an ATM machine (cash point). You have to either fill out a terribly repetitive deposit slip and wait in line at the teller windows, or place the check(s) in an envelope and enclose the slip, and repeat the same numbers two more times on one envelope. Then, you place it into a drop slot located on the inside of the bank. All banks close at 5pm. What they don't tell you is that the teller windows close at 4:30. So, if you want to cash or deposit a check, you have to do it on your lunch break (this causes massive lines at all Banks during lunchtime). On Saturdays, most banks drop down to a 10% capacity in the city (if you are lucky). This means only one bank in a 10 mile radius is open. Again, the lines are massive for most of these days due to the compounded need vs. availability.

Emily and I felt adventurous for an afternoon and rented a Dorry for a row on the river Thames. This particular stretch of the river (Richmond) has a nice tranquil atmosphere that only money can buy. It is one of the more posh areas of London. We rowed downstream and enjoyed the willow trees, old steam boats and barges parked along the banks. These barges used to be the trucks we see on the roads today. They would wait for the tides to advance enough to fill the lochs that controlled traffic and upstream movement. This is why so many 'old' pubs are located near the 'old' lochs. Sadly, there were no such lochs in operation for us and we had to row back against the tide and current. This proved to be an arduous task, requiring many corrections in steering and judgement. The good news was that the old pubs were still very much in operation. The particular one we visited (the White Cross) had a high and low tide entrance. As the beer level receded in my glass the tide advanced. It just flows right on into the beer garden. Much more effective than any last call. It was a grand day out and nice to feel the flow of the river that gives this massive city a pulse.

Our most recent adventure was a trip to the southwestern tip of England known as Cornwall. Our friends invited us to stay and surf the coast with them. This we could not pass up, no matter how unstable the weather. The departure proved to be a major challenge. Due to the severe weather, my train was delayed due to mudslides and Emily's was canceled and re-routed. In all, it took us 10 hours to get about 250 miles from London. It was finally successful by midnight through a combination of trains and patient friends who own automobiles. All the toil and stress was worth it though. Since I have been in England, I kept hearing amazing things about Cornwall. It appears to be the surfing mecca of the island. Well, after an introduction to the rocky and wild coastline, I can conclude that the surf must be impressive when there is a swell. When we were there, it was roaring in at a height of upper ankle to lower calf, with the occasional rouge set threatening the lower knee joint. Hardly a big wave day, but at least it wasn't hailing whilst we were surfing! The temperature of the ocean is actually significantly warmer than the Northern California waters I am used to. So we had that going for us. It was hardly a secret spot and the masses were out with the foam-topped boards. Emily actually got a little surf tutorial from me and we both marveled at the irony of her having to come from California to England to learn to surf. After a few hours of paddling and fooling about, we were famished. We strode over to a coffee shop and filled up on the local specialty: the Cornish Pasty. This baked pocket of delight is the quintessential meal for anyone who requires a quick fix. Usually filled with steak and potatoes, these Anglo-calzones do the trick. These pasties can be found in any English train station, and usually fill the stomachs of the drinking crowd after a long night out.



Cornwall used to be a quiet, isolated peninsula filled with cows, sheep, rocky coastline and fishermen. Then, the big city folk with big city bonuses arrived with obscene amounts of money. They began to buy up any and all real-estate until the locals were pushed out and priced out. Now the area boasts serene farmland, quaint villages with at least two fancy coffee shops, surf shops, hip restaurants and art galleries. Every other vehicle is either a Porsche 911 or an over-sized SUV. Beautiful places attract wealthy people the world over. Fortunately, no stucco high-rises have made their way here as of yet.

The drive back home was scenic and relaxing. There is a high concentration of military bases dotted throughout the southwest, and occasionally you would come across signs such as these. You see geese, you slow down and swerve. You see a tank, you pray. We zoomed past beautiful wheat fields sharing space with red poppies. Wide open, beautiful countryside that has not changed in centuries. We even got to drive past Stonehenge, which literally appears out of the trees and resembles a fenced-in rest stop. We respected the ancient Druid's site so much, we slowed the vehicle to about 60mph.

Back in London life returns to normal (with flooding). At home its all planes trains and automobiles. With five major international airports surrounding London, you are always hearing or seeing an airplane. One friend counted 13 in the sky at one time while at the local park (Clapham Common). This becomes a normal thing here, and soon the Boeing 747 powering down becomes white noise. Since we live near the train station, we also get to hear the trains coming and going from Victoria and Waterloo station. Add this to the busy bus lines running up and down the street and you have constant movement surrounding us. Hard to get used to the first night back from the country. Amazing what one gets used to. Soon we only hear the screeching of the foxes, sirens in the distance and the sound of the alarm clock for another new morning in London.