Random observations about London:

• The light switches, at least in this hotel, are backwards. Up is off and down is on. And the outlets have on/off switches, too, which is kinda cool.




• Every single sales clerk checks my receipt signature against the one on my credit card. I think I've only had maybe two people ever do that in the States. I appreciate it, though.




• No one knows which side of the sidewalk to walk on. Presumably, since everyone drives on the left, the left would be the side pedestrians cling to as well. But it seems to be pretty much up for grabs. Granted, in New York it is equally up for grabs, but that's because there are so many people and the sidewalks are a squeeze-in-where-you-can free for all. However, in London it seems as if people do try to take sides, but just as many people go right as go left. (For awhile Rob and I assumed everyone going right were Americans, but I no longer actually think this is the case.) In fact, most Tube stations have walkway signs that say "Stay to the right" but I've seen at least two that say "Stay to the left." Fuck it - I've just been going straight down the middle.




• Nannies, nannies everywhere. Last Friday I kept exclaiming to Rob that all the mothers here are so young and so pretty and in such good shape! And today I had a revelation: Uh duh, they're nannies. Actually, many of them may very well be mothers. But today I've definitely seen a number of young women who are caring for children who look very different from them and very different from each other. Nannies!




• There is a bit of a Donny Osmond obsession here. I know, right? Weird. I don't get it. But I've been hearing much gushing about him on tv and I've seen things in the papers about him and GET THIS. I was browsing a Waterstone's bookstore today when I noticed signs announcing that Donny Osmond would be there for a book signing at 1pm. It was 12:30 so I plopped down with a book for half an hour. I have absolutely no interest in Donny Osmond one way or another, but he's famous and stuff so that's cool. (Sarah Jessica Parker was in London at the end of last week promoting a new perfume or something - now why the hell couldn't I have run into her?!) It was funny, too, because when Donny Osmond stepped into the room, the crowd of people waiting for him went "YAY!!!" I'm almost certain that in the States we would have clapped at his arrival. But instead there was this effusive "YAY!!!" (complete with British accent, of course). It was so cute. And actually, so is Donny. Who knew? I was standing directly behind the press photographers and they were acting just like he was on the red carpet. He was sitting at the table signing copies of his book for people, and the photographers kept saying, "Right here, Donny!" "Look up!" "Donny, for the papers - look right here!" It was awesome. Of course, I had my camera in my bag, so I fought my way up onto a bench (no, really) to get a few shots. Most of them turned out blurry because of people knocking into me (these Brits take their Donny Osmond sightings seriously) but here's one that's pretty good.

Remember the scene in Notting Hill in which Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant are at a movie? He couldn't find his glasses and so he's wearing his prescription goggles and she throws popcorn at him and then laughs? Rob and I went to see a movie in that cinema last night. I WAS IN THE VERY BUILDING THAT JULIA ROBERTS WAS ONCE IN, PEOPLE!!!! (Oh right, you don't know this about me - I adore Julia Roberts. As in, if I had to choose between spending a day with John Stamos or Julia Roberts, I would chose Julia. Now, if I had to choose which of them to spend a night with, it would most definitely be John. But I dig The Roberts very very much. I can quote Pretty Woman and nearly every episode of Full House to an equally amazing (albeit disturbing) degree of accuracy.) Anyway, the place is gorgeous. There are two levels of balconies - it felt more like an opera house and quite certainly was a stage theatre in the past. I didn't take my camera with me, but today I got a shot of the outside.

I spent today roaming Oxford Street, Bond Street (fancypants clothing designers), and Regent's Park. As I first came into the park, I passed a bride and groom who were having their pictures taken.

Later, I was sitting on a bench along the Broad Walk in Regent's, reading, when a man wearing a nice jacket and a hat passed by, then stopped, then took a couple steps back toward me. He said, "You have a nice ____." I didn't catch the last word. It wasn't anything obscene - look, maybe? I'm really not sure because I was reading and not paying attention. I looked up at him and he asked, "Are you French?" I shook my head no and sorta smiled. French? I mean, seriously. Then he said, "Well, what parts are you from, then?" I told him I was from the States. He looked completely surprised and then said, "Then how is it you look so continental?" I sorta shrugged and half-smiled again. He asked, "Whereabouts in the States?" I told him, and he said, "But you've got such great teeth." (At first I thought this was a strange thing to say considering that the stereotype is that Brits have bad teeth. But then I thought about the dental hygiene of people in Redneck Valley and figured it was an appropriate comment after all. Heh.) "You ought to work for a Colgate ad or something, you know." I smiled and told him I'd keep that in mind. He took a step away and said, "Do you hear things like this often?" I told him I'd heard it a couple of times and he sorta shook his head, smiled, and turned and walked away. It was bizarre, but it made my day.

I feel like I've really hit my stride now in London and sadly we're leaving. Tomorrow we take the train to Paris...

Oh, that reminds me. (Yes, this post is now WAY long, but Rob is late getting back from work today and neither my feet nor our budget will permit any more shopping so I will entertain myself by blogging. Deal with it.)

On Friday, a woman stopped Rob and I on the street and asked, with a British accent, "Are you English?" I told her no, and she asked, "Would you take a picture of us?" and gestured to the man who was with her. We did. As we walked away I said to Rob, "Why did she ask us if we were English? Why did that matter?" He responded that she hadn't said English; she had said engaged. "WHY would she have said engaged?" I asked. "That makes even less sense than English." So then we tossed back and forth a whole host of creative theories, utterly perplexed at what sort of discrimination this lady had been pursuing. And then all of a sudden Rob exclaimed, "She meant ENGAGED! As in, Are you BUSY?" We burst out laughing at our complete inability to understand English, the language that we speak. And then I turned to him and said, "We are so fucked in France."

(Speaking of being a complete idiot, what do you think a Beetroot and Bleu Cheese pizza would have on it? Because I was devastatingly disappointed this weekend when said pizza was brought to my table and it was covered in BEETS. BEETS! I assumed beetroot was like an herb or something. Had it said Beets and Bleu Cheese, I would have so been there. But the root totally threw me off. Like I said, fucked in France. (As I'm sure you're wondering, the pizza was delicious once the beets had been carefully scraped off and eaten separately. I like beets just fine, but they do not belong on pizza thank you very much.))

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Update: LB's comment reminded me - this weekend I heard an older woman say "Whoopsie Daisy!"! That's my favorite Notting Hill scene too, LB, and needless to say I cracked up on the spot. Made my day, it did.

Rarely do I read a book a second time, even one by an author I respect as much as I respect Virginia Woolf. I'd read Mrs. Dalloway in college and only pulled it off the shelf this time around because we were heading to London and I remembered that Mrs. Dalloway is, in many parts, a walking tour of London. I thought it would give me a good sense of this city, and it absolutely did. (And likewise, London made the novel come that much more alive to me as well, now that I've been to all the places mentioned.) But what I wasn't prepared for was how well I related to the novel this time around. Specifically, how well I related to Clarissa Dalloway: her "atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness," her conflicted yet immutable friendship with Peter, her perception of people, her preference for roses over politics, and I could go on. At every turn, I found myself gasping at the similarities. (Why didn't I notice these things when I read it before? Was I a different person then, much less like Clarissa than I am now?) This time around, I was absolutely blown away by this novel; not only was I able to appreciate the genius of the writing in a way I hadn't before, but I found myself in a character unlike I ever have before.