Sunday afternoon tea: February 12

It is a cold, rainy day in London. This morning, returning from my walk, I met my new neighbor who, with his girlfriend, just moved in the flat @ #20 while his divorce “settles.” It was a highly entertaining conversation about Hampstead, American politics, his adult children, the soon-to-be-ex-wife who is amicable but taking all his “things,” the global housing market, my internet service, the shape of the yield curve, and on, and on. 

Henry fits the classic, stereotype of an investment banker. They arrived yesterday and he is meeting the “estate agent” today to shop for a suitable home in London—planning to live here before retiring to New Zealand or South Africa when he turns 60 in six years.

He showed me the flat on our street where George Michael lives, as well as what flat belongs to Liam (?) from Oasis.  Cameron Diaz owns the flat at the end of the road, but “she is hardly ever here.” He has been here 24 hours and has the 411 on all the neighbors as well as having snooped in my backyard to see the type of cable connection we have.  He informs me that if I had not noticed, Hampstead is “where gay, moneyed Londoners live.”   I had not noticed, but it does explain something about my Tuesday evening group. Palm meet forehead. Duh—that is another long story.

I do enjoy talking with anyone who goes “inside baseball” with me on American politics. So that was very pleasant.  Ended with this classic: “you really must join us for dinner at [waves hand pointing downhill] that tiny restaurant where {names some chef} is set up.  There is no sign, it looks like a flat.  It is absolutely the best food in the U.K.—maybe the world according to reviews—but, of course, you can’t just walk in.  And, reservations are IMPOSSIBLE to get.  We’ll take you. It’s just round the corner.”

Do they clone these investment bankers and their repartee? Why is their specialty always getting one into restaurants/clubs nobody else can get into?  I’ll be on the lookout for his dancer girlfriend from Durbin—“a beautiful girl.”   Crud, I even heard too much info on the state of his relationship: apparently, he believes that Ms. 36 year old does not share enough of his cultural capital so he has her on a regime of watching Frazier reruns and old movies so they have something in common to talk about.  They are picking their way through Clint Eastwood.  I was about to plotze. 

I also met the pensioner next door who has a broken arm—I helped her up the steps as she was struggling with groceries and a cane.  Her English is very broken, but good to have a face to go with the midnight dinner preparation sounds. She could use my help picking things up at the market, so I agreed to look in after her.

I may have to extinguish a phrase I use because it sends the Brits into spasms: “For real.”  They always say it back, quizzically, and then laugh heartily.  It has happened several times, so I am beginning to catch myself.

Just when I was feeling that I had gone native, a young man behind me in the grocery line this morning asked, “American?” I responded, “How do you know? I have not even opened my mouth.”  He said, “the way you are staring at your purchase on the belt.  Really looking at what you are buying. The English feign a look of indifference in public.” He has been here a year from Algeria.  Everyone, it seems, has been to the States.

I spent much of  the day working.  Since I am leaving for Lisbon early Friday, I need to have two weeks of classes planned and lectures prepared as I don’t return until next Monday night.

Unfortunately, the rain did not melt away all the snow, so I guess we will have a very icy morning tomorrow. 

Hope you all have a wonderful Sunday.  Happy Lincoln’s Birthday and a special Happy Birthday shout out to my Aunt Julie O’Donovan Ireland who turns 94 today—still driving and keeping other Lagunatics on their toes.

Salud.