Vernacular: Spectacular!

‘Trolling for Guys’ is a fun pastime that all single girls in New York are familiar with. You spot a cute one, try to make eye contact, maybe flash a smile if he’s lucky, and even strike up a conversation after a martini or two. It may sound trite and superficial, but a little harmless flirtation is fun! So why not?

There is one scenario during the game, however, when a New York girl is rendered powerless by a man, despite her level of expertise or how many other options she has. Mind all of you men out there, what I am about to share is not a line you can rehearse or a gesture you can practice. It’s property that is only begotten via natural acquisition (so don’t try to fake it, because we can tell). And that quality is – drum roll, please – an accent.

Hearing the melody of that gorgeous voice fall out of the mouth of a man is like getting roofied by Cupid: there is no releasing yourself from the vice of his vocal chords. Each day I become more and more enamored by British jargon on the whole. Their choice of words, their unruffled tones, and of course, that glorious accent, has made their brand of English the best kind of English. Even in their writing and literature – their text messages! – it’s so saturated with sophistication that their spit literally drips eloquence.

Everyday banter is so fluid and natural that it seems rehearsed. Tethered to their manners, their words are hand selected and delicately plucked to suit the situation. But still, a Brit is always sincere. In fact they are nearly as honest as New Yorkers, except they don’t increase the volume of their voices or incorporate crude words to demonstrate how they feel.

Furthermore, as the London dialect is derived from very proper Old English, it makes ours sound ignorant. See, Brits choose gentler terms in place of the words we use for emphasis, making us seem excessive and even a little desperate. For example, where Americans often employ certain four-letter words to call someone an idiot, Brits would more politely call that individual “simple.” And generally I just like their terminology better! Brits don’t “wait on line,” but instead they “stand in queue.” Their food is “gorgeous,” their tea is “proper,” and their good-looking residents are “fit.”

And while I drool over their vernacular, and unfailingly attempt the accent after I’ve had enough wine, I realized that I loved their way of speaking so much because it wasn’t mine. It’s different from what I know, and that makes it special. But what’s interesting is that since I’ve been here, I received innumerable compliments on my New York twang. Now I am the one with the accent, I’m the one who’s different, and you know what? I actually feel cooler for it.

Weather or Not

There are countless things for which London is known and adored.

Its weather is not one of those things.

I’m not talking about the fact that it rains at least once a day, or that it we can go a whole week without direct sunlight. Right now, that’s the least of my worries. Perhaps my biggest concern with the London weather is the overall winter season – You know winter – It occupies about a quarter of the year’s weather pattern and temperature; there’s a tendency to snow… have you heard of it? Because I’m pretty sure London hasn’t.

What’s so confusing is that unfavorable weather is expected here. There isn’t a Brit who would leave his house without an umbrella or who has ever been surprised by precipitation. Sun, in fact, is less predictable than rain. And in a country which can reflect on literally hundreds of years of its own climate, you would think that its inhabitants would be better prepared for “adverse weather conditions.” Think again.

Living in New York, and more specifically, attending college in upstate New York, has taught me the treachery of snow. There is no denying the brutality of blizzards, with the biting winds and icy streets. I’ve been there; I’ve lived it. It sucks. So forgive me, England, if I have absolutely no sympathy for you if a few snowflakes descend from the sky and accumulate on the ground just to be melted by the sole of your shoe under your stride. The tubes don’t have to be delayed (especially because most of them run underground) and your kids can still attend school. You’ll get through it.

It is almost laughable though, the way Londoners respond to these “adverse conditions,” because they’re more dramatic than a pubescent girl. I’ve received more frantic emails about the weather from people back home than I did the day I landed in India when it was under siege. What are you telling people, London? This is not the apocalypse – it’s a flurry. So sprinkle some salt and stop whining.

Which brings me to my next point; and I know this is difficult to understand but bear with me. Ready? There is a reason why Americans put salt on the pavement – because it works. The ice may be the only legitimate argument you have regarding the weather, but you lose all credibility when the solution is viable and easy. Enough with the drama. Do something about it.

So clearly I feel pretty strongly about this, and perhaps it’s because my threshold for snow is much higher. But I recognize that I am being a bit harsh and even a little insensitive. And for that, I want to offer my sincere apologies to you, London. I know it’s not your fault. I’ve had my fair share of bad weather, so I’m sorry for taking yours granted. And I have faith that one day soon Londoners will be able to tolerate the weather like New Yorkers can. Hey, and maybe even New Yorkers will learn to become as patient as you.

But I would sooner expect Hell to freeze over.

An Inconvenient Truth

I’ve been told before that people like to fly with me because I’m not intimidated by traveling. I’ve had my fair share: Long weekends in Europe, over night stays in India…

ON TANGENT: Yes, you read that correctly. I stayed in India overnight. Actually the plan was to spend three weeks there studying in about a dozen cities, but unfortunately I arrived in New Delhi the same day as the attacks on Mumbai, and due to the nature of the attacks, my group was quickly sent home. Though we were devastated to leave early, our short twenty hours there were far more educational than an entire term I spent prior learning about it. And we had plans to go to Mumbai literally days after our arrival, so our departure was for the best.

Because I grew up in Scarsdale, the gossip capital of the world, word got out about my trip to India, and the rumors were laughable. When someone approached me a week after I got home, asking how I could be mentally stable enough to be out shopping, because the trauma of “being held captive” in the basement of the Taj Hotel must have been “traumatizing”, I realized there might be some truth to this “Ignorant American” concept. Yeah, I’m going to go out on a limb here and agree that such an experience would be traumatizing, probably fatal, even. But I’m just speculating. Considering the distance between New Delhi to Mumbai is further than that of New York to Miami, it dawned on me that perhaps Americans were targeted in those attacks because outside the US, we don’t know or really give a shit. So if from my experience in India, this woman didn’t learn that she shouldn’t listen to outrageous hearsay when there is blatant evidence to the contrary, she definitely learned a little soemthing about geography.

OFF TANGENT: People think that my travel track record is what gives me confidence when I take a trip. The truth is that New York City has a way of thickening one’s skin. The unpredictability of New York has toughened me up, and consequently I’ve learned to strive through difficult situations. For this, I owe New York my firstborn.

People have said that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. And that was often the retort I whipped out when others questioned why I would even think of leaving the city. I knew that I would succeed in London, because time and time again I had succeeded in New York.

After spending a few weeks here in Europe, I can confidently say that the above statement is false. In fact I would say that if you can make it in New York, you should probably just stay there. Here is why:

New York is the city that never sleeps. And, we forget, is quite small. Thusly, New York is a town that is thoroughly convenient. I can order take out on a Sunday at midnight; I can get to Soho in twenty minutes, tops; Hell, I get cell service on the subway. New York operates like a machine, come rain, shine, snow and sleet.

Cities in Europe do not. More specifically, London does not. Your local pub closes at 11, the tube (which has no air conditioning) (you’re probably thinking why that matters over here but, trust me, it does) stops running at midnight, and the city is freaking huge! It takes me an hour just to get to the good bars on the other side of town! The transition, as you can see, has been challenging.

If we examine the issue more closely, the truth rears its ugly head and we just have to admit that (sigh) I’ve been spoiled. I’ve said it, I’m spoiled (happy, Mom?). I’m not used to having to plan how I am getting home, or limit my evening based on the parameters set by some higher authority. Most of all, I am used to things being available and immediate… And that is just not the case here.

But like all learning experiences, there is a lesson here. I’ve taken New York and all its amenities for granted and since coming to London, I’ve become more patient. I’ve even learned how to budget my time better, and I am proud to announce that my chronic tardiness of 10 minutes has shrunk to 5. New York has been the greatest tough-love teacher I’ve ever had, but London taught me lenience (and for that I owe London my second born).

Hear No Evil, See No Evil

I don’t normally go to the see the orchestra, because that’s not my kind of music, but I rarely turn down invitations, even if the event is not my style. My friend Nick invited me to an Azerbaijani concert, a form of Russian music which I could only begin to describe as the fusion of Eastern and Western sounds fitting into one melody in two very distinct ways. I once heard that when listening, it’s best to close your eyes. So, in order to look like I knew what I was doing (which, obviously, I didn’t) I intended to close them… until I caught a brief glimpse of the visual harmony of the orchestra. The music I heard was exquisite, but the most enchanting part of the orchestra, for me, was the way they moved.

I resisted blinking. The way the violinists’ bodies heaved and collapsed in the wake of their music, pushed and commanded by the hand of the conductor like a Poseidon of song. Their bows, bowing and erecting at the flick of his wand, which floated danced poked prodded urging them, egging them on, like an ambitious didactic trying to prove a point. Maestro’s arms cradled the air when he chose to soften his symphony, as if to lay a sleeping child to rest. To me he seemed, fatherly, Godly even, in his ability to flex the chasm between his passion and his control. He reigned over the musicians, the instruments, over me. He hypnotized.

The quivering hand of the cellists did not produce a trembling note but rather a confident wave of vibrato, luring me deep inside its tragedy. Their heads bobbed in unison, and I sat enraptured wondering how they could simultaneously meditate to the sound they just birthed. I was affected, and you could see it on my skin.

I can’t say that I would have ever experienced that if I were in New York. New York has concerts such as the one above equally as often as London, but I don’t know if someone like me would even consider attending an orchestra back home. It's too... unusual. But I suppose that is the thing about being away from home: a routine is absent from your life for so long, you can’t even remember what it used to be.

It’s kinda nice.

Homecoming

There’s safety and comfort in the idea that there are certain things in life that remain constant. Home, for instance. Regardless of how drastically our worlds alter or falter, we can depend on the consistency of Home to salvage the shreds of our lives. It’s therapeutic, like a masseuse for the soul. There’s a reason that, in times of chaos, we return to the place that molded our original routines. Going Home restores that sense of balance, and buoys the illusion that our lives aren’t nearly as fucked up as we thought they were, simply because constancy is so dependable.

I flew home to New York last week for a few days, and I’ve never been so happy. There are things about New York – Home – that are simply irreplaceable, and the mere notion of reuniting with the aggressive cabbies and the avenues flanked with skyscrapers had me feeling, in a word, found. Most of all, I was itching to see my friends and restart the relationships that were put on pause since I left for London.

From the beginning of my homecoming, however, it was made explicitly clear that despite that the physical Home – the one that is unique to each of us, that we have and know and love – remains stagnant, the rest of the world does not. Cultures evolve, scenarios change, and like the good products of our environments that we are, we also must adjust to fit into our surroundings. People move forward with their lives, and they relocate and get jobs and find somebody to love. And though I struggled in making the realization, I knew it was unrealistic to expect others to keep me as a top priority forever.

I anticipated that my trip home would be as if it were any other weekend I spent in New York before I came to London: mornings with Bloody Marys downtown and evenings at glamorous restaurants followed by Frat-type bars in Murray Hill, where we would laugh at the irony when we inevitably order martinis. But if I’ve learned anything that I should’ve learned from my last post, expectations are atom bombs of disappointment. And for my friends and me, this is a time in our lives where the only thing that is constant is the fact that nothing is constant. I came to New York and wanted everything to be exactly the same as before, but I lost sight of the fact that everything had changed. And though I am living abroad, by myself, being an adult, there were parts of me that were still fiercely clutching aspects of my life that existed only in my childhood, in college; in places where I was stagnant but never knew.

In that lies the appeal in going Home: because we’ve created worlds that are furiously spinning and we’ve forced our lives to organize inside the centrifuge; Home lies on the outskirts of that force and remains unaffected. But hard as it is to swallow, the Home we think of may only be a physical thing: it may only be the house you grew up in, the home cooked meals, your very own bed – because Home is a state of mind, and therefore, is relative. And I’ve come to find that Home is not where the heart is, but rather, where you make it. So, yes – Home is comforting. But I find more comfort in the fact that you can build Home around you... wherever you are.

So in the meantime, I’m homeless. And though that may sound discouraging, I’m still hopeful. Because all of this, physically and emotionally, is temporary. And, when I look around, I have to be grateful that presently my Home is a gorgeous flat on Kensington High Street, in one of the world’s most exciting cities, and not a sidewalk, even with the same address.

Great Expectations

Perhaps the most alluring advantage of living in Europe is the ability and ease to travel. Going to and from Italy felt more like a daily commute than trip considering the travel time and pleasant lack of jet lag. Despite their proximity, the countries in Europe feel worlds apart based on the drastic contrasts in art, food, fashion, architecture, and sometimes climate. I didn't anticipate Florence to feel as different from London as it was, but when you think about it these two cities really don't have that much in common. Except that they're both fabulous.

Though it was nice to get out of London for a few days (sometimes you need a holiday away from your… well, I guess this little stint is a holiday), it feels really nice to be back – especially because now I’m feeling pretty refreshed, relaxed, and overall just happier.

I can understand how ridiculous that sounds. I’m living abroad, traveling at my leisure, with zero obligations to anyone but myself – tell me: how could I be happier? I know it doesn’t make sense. But sometime between my departure from and my arrival back to London, something clicked for me regarding my time here.

Removing yourself from a situation, or a location, can sometimes shed light in such a way that it elucidates a new perspective. And once I got back into my flat, it occurred to me that the whole time I’ve been here, I’ve been trying to create the London that I had imagined.

Allow me to paint you a picture: I imagined that in London I would spend my afternoons in cafes, drinking tea and eating scones, writing literature that would later be published and acclaimed and world renowned; I anticipated meeting Europeans at every corner, who would invite me to their homes where we would endlessly discuss books and art, allowing the wine to ignite and fuel tangent conversations. In London, I expected to find love – to find the kindest, most creative, intelligent and interesting man and who thought I was equally so, who saw all of my flaws and vices as the sheer fabric of perfection, who thinks my thoughts, where the negative space of his embrace called for my body, fitting too perfectly for there to be any doubt.

That was what I expected to find in London. I haven’t found it yet.

We are told to aim high. But I don’t think we realize that in building these high expectations, we are also erecting barriers and barricading portals to reality. Great expectations can be good, as long as they are grounded on a foundation of lucid thought. And that’s where I went wrong. I tried and tried to no avail turn the London of my reality into the London I dreamed of. And when despite my efforts, I was unable to make London what I wanted it to be, I was more disappointed and lonelier than before.

But what clicked for me upon my return from Italy was this simple idea that changed my entire attitude about London:

Stop trying to turn it into what you expected it to be.

At the moment, these dreams remain just that: dreams. They are things to aspire to and scenarios to fantasize about. But they all are attached to inklings of hope that perhaps one day, the picture of expectation I painted would be a mural of my reality.

Life in the Slow Lane

A major pet peeve of mine is a Slow Walker. Tied with the descending sensation of when your sock falls halfway down your foot, there is nothing more irksome than when another pedestrian becomes an obstruction in your path from point A to B. And sometimes, such an obstruction feels more like a barricade when, for example, a group of glacial-paced tourists occupy 90% of the sidewalk, leaving only a sliver of a lane for me and my oversized bag. Rude.

In this situation, I ride this person's ass so hard they wonder why I didn't pull their hair (I must credit this phrase to shrewd and lewd bumper sticker that I saw every morning on my walk to class last year. It read, "if you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair". Many thanks to the Schenectdoid with a sense of humor). When I get close enough that I am actually clipping the backs of their shoes with every step, they move out of the way, generally looking alarmed and startled while I accelerate passed them in a huff.

Some people have deemed this little habit of mine as impatience. But listen: my legs, though short, belong to a city walker, and have been conditioned over years of being late to move quickly. And sometimes that means, leaving Country Bumpkins in the dust. Sue me.

My city walking ways have served me quite well in London, as everyone here also races everywhere (the difference is that New Yorkers race because they are chronically tardy, where Londoners are so punctual that they put us to shame. And so to ensure their punctuality, Londoners race between appointments in order to arrive early). In other European cities, however, I have - most literally - ran into trouble with my speedwalking.

I've spent the past week in Italy, exploring the countryside and cobblestoned streets of Florence. Trust me, the Italians know how to do it: delicious wine that is cheaper than water, incredible food, breathtaking art... They've practically invented culture. Perhaps the only thing that they are not good at, is timing. Specifically, speed. People in Florence must not have any obligations. "Be right back"? Unlikely. Fast Food - were you trying to be ironic? If you're going to send a Florentine to run your errands for you, be sure to give him next week's grocery list, because that is probably when he will be back. You guessed it, Florentines are a New Yorker's sidewalk nightmare. While they would mosey along the narrow flanks of the street, I would closely tail them until there were an opportune moment to whiz passed, despite the risk of being hit by a vespa. I even found myself trying to telepathically move them aside, wringing my wrists in circles while I honed in behind them, willing them out of the way.

It wasn't until I had dinner with a family friend and proud ex-pat, Mary, who shared her knowledge of the Florentine lifestyle, that I realized the Italians' leisurely walking was indicative of how they like to live life. And I discovered that the aspects of their lifestyles that I considered an inconvenience was actually their way of maximizing their own happiness. It's clear in their pace and also, I found, in their restaurant operation: with food like the Italians, any Florentine restaurateur should be a millionaire. But instead, with only two seating times per evening and an environment that's rather unaccommodating to one's dietary limitations, they don't prioritize lucrative business. It's about doing their job, and going home to their families. And maybe that seems a little cut and dry, but I can't help but admire the integrity in that.

In New York, it's about time and money. In Italy, it's about life. Their priorities are different, and arguably, more appropriate. There may not be a perspective that is superior or correct, but looking through a different lens every once and a while sobers you up from the lifestyle you've grown accustomed to. So maybe I will try walking a little slower for a few days. Maybe I will see something new.