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.