[Insert caption here]

So...I ran out of money in December. No great surprise--in fact, I'm amazed it lasted that long, considering how expensive London is and how bad the exchange rate was when I moved here. The only thing (literally) that I got out of the divorce was one investment account, but for tax purposes I didn't want to touch it until 2009, leaving me about a month where I had literally no cash, but I still had to pay rent for January.

I considered several options--borrowing, stealing, sleeping on the street--and decided to take a cash advance against one of my credit cards, and pay it back next month with the distribution from the investment account. I have two UK cards and two US cards, so getting the money was not going to be a problem...I thought. I needed a PIN from Citibank so I requested it in November, but for some reason they wouldn't mail it outside the US, so I had it sent to my mom's. I was going to be there in December, so I figured I could pick it up then, but of course it didn't arrive until after I left, and then my mom (bless her) took a month to send it to me.

I wasn't worried because I had three other cards. I went to use my American Express, but could only get £200. I called to raise the limit, and they told me not only could they not raise the limit, but the limit was £200 per week. At that rate, I wouldn't be able to pay my rent until February!

So now I was down to 2 cards, one of which would have taken me over the limit, and the other which I'd managed to transpose two digits of the PIN, and locked the card. So I was screwed, and the rent was already two days late. I finally asked my mom to just open my mail and read me the Citibank PIN, but she had finally sent the mail...the day before. So my mom offered to loan me the money, but her bank wouldn't do an international wire transfer. In the end, she wired it to my Wells Fargo account, and I was able to withdraw it in cash at the ATM outside the branch, then walk inside and deposit it. The whole situation was beyond ridiculous, but then so is my life.

At the same time, the UK had one of its worst cold snaps in years, with temperatures in London down to -3°C. Now, that's only 27°F -- 10 degrees warmer than the average temperature in Chicago in January, and even Pennsylvania is colder -- but I can't think in Celsius, so when I hear -3° I imagine frostbite, gangrene, and eating other people just to stay alive. To entertain myself, I watched the water birds skidding on the frozen lakes. How cruel is that?

To deal with the cold, I've focused on three dates, two of which have already passed:

• December 21 -- The winter solstice, or shortest day of the year, when London had less than 8 hours of daylight. (Los Angeles, by comparison, had almost 10 hours.) After this date, the days (slowly) start getting longer.
• January 19 -- Calculated as the most depressing day of the year in the UK. (I have also learned that most suicides occur on Monday, and most suicides on the Underground occur around 11am. Try not to read into this.)
• March 20 -- The first day of Spring. In my head, that means long days and warm temperatures. In reality, that means average temperatures of 6°C (43°F) and average sunlight of 4 hours per day.

You'll notice I differentiated between "daylight" (when the sun is up) and "sunlight" (when you can actually see it). In Los Angeles, those are generally the same, but in England January may have 8 hours of daylight, but average sunlight of only 1 hour per day! (Now you see why January 19 is so depressing.)

I should mention that Jessica and I were invited to Egypt for New Years, which was 24°C (75°F). However, the invitation was made on December 30, and while Jess can travel with no notice (she works for British Air), it would have cost me a small fortune, so we stayed home and watched fireworks on TV. We are going to Israel in early March, however, and I'm not about to let a little thing like not having any money get in my way...

P.S. Look, I cut my hair!

Christmas 2008 newsletter

Money's tight
Times are hard
Here's your '08
Christmas card...

First, apologies for not sending a Christmas letter in 2006 and 2007. (I did actually write one last year, but never sent it. Trust me, that's a good thing.) Second, apologies for only sending an e-card this year, but postage from the UK to the US is outrageous!

2008 started on a sad note: Alex the iguana passed away in February. She was 17 years old, and she graced the cover of the Christmas cards from 1994 to 2005, most of which can still be seen here. (I have no idea why that site is still up; I closed that account years ago. I can't even update it.)

As you're probably aware, 2006 was a low point for me, and most of 2007 was spent recovering. If you're not aware: I spent my life's savings restoring an historic property that was in my wife's family, with the intent of moving there and opening a bed and breakfast. When it was finished, however, we got a divorce, instead, and I ended up with no money, no job, no car, and no home.

That's not entirely true: I still had a home because the house in LA had been on the market for over 6 months without a single offer. It was already mortgaged to the hilt so I couldn't afford to keep the house; I had to fix it up and sell it fast, or be forced into bankruptcy. So, for the next four months, I was living in my own house with no furnishings save for an inflatable bed, a battered old chair, two suitcases of clothes, a mini-fridge, and a 12” TV, plus my neighbor loaned me a frying pan, a knife, and a can opener. I had no car, the house was a construction zone, and my life was in limbo waiting for the house to sell. That was the worst part, not being able to move on, and even though I had to walk everywhere, I put on 35 pounds during the period.

It got even more bizarre: When the work was finished, I hired someone to “stage” the house, which meant she put in furniture, paintings, decorations, etc. Now I was living in my own house with somebody else's stuff and--contractually--I couldn't even sit on the sofa! (I did, anyway. I'm such a rebel.)

The house finally sold in February 2007 but, as I said, I had no equity left and I'd spent what little savings I had left fixing it up, so at the age of 37, I was flat broke and literally starting over from scratch. Now, I was born and raised in LA, all of my friends and business contacts were in LA, so naturally I decided to move to London. It was crazy, it was reckless, but if I had to start over anyway, I figured, why not do it different?

However, for the UK work permit, I needed proof of employment for the past 12 months, which I couldn't provide because of the bed and breakfast. So I took a job a friend offered me in LA, I rented a funky loft apartment downtown, I completely furnished it (although I still slept on the air bed for two months), and I decided not to get a car, but instead rely on public transportation. I went to shows, concerts, and museums; I ate the best food at the seediest little hole-in-the-wall restaurants; I went to the gym and started taking yoga classes; and I got to experience a whole different side of Los Angeles, which I actually loved. That didn't make me want to stay, but it did make me feel like I wasn't running away.

When I got my UK work permit in May 2008, I quit my job, sold all of the furniture I'd just bought, packed the remaining stuff back into two suitcases, reserved a hotel room in London for two weeks, and left. It was crazy, irresponsible, (kind of) impulsive, and scared the hell out of me—which is exactly why I did it. I told everyone I was leaving, of course, and people put me in touch with a couple of contacts, including some friends of friends, who had a daughter living in London.

I called Jessica and we spoke a few times before she agreed to meet me on Primrose Hill on a Sunday afternoon in June. I knew from our phone calls and emails that I was attracted to her, but I was completely unprepared for how gorgeous she was. I was so smitten, I wanted to be sure I didn't blow it by talking about my ex-wife, my lack of employment, or anything that had happened to me in the last two years. Naturally, she started the conversation with, “Are you married?” “Where do you work?” and “Why did you move to London?”

I was devastated, knowing she would never speak to me again—or at least not consider me dating potential—but, ironically, she appreciated my honesty, and agreed to a second date. I had butterflies all week, and felt like a teenager. Of course I was in love, but I didn't even recognize it until the end of the second date, when I kissed her, and suddenly it all became very clear.

Jessica is very warm and open, but she can also be shy and private, and she asked me not to take any pictures of her, which meant that for six months I was sending emails to friends and family saying, I've fallen in love with the most amazing woman, but I don't have any photos of her. Of course, they all thought I was lying, so in December I brought her back to California with me and, in eight days, she met most of my family and about 50 of my friends and co-workers.

So in the end, in spite of everything over the past three years, I know that it was all for the best, and I can honestly say I have no regrets. Even though the unemployment situation is stressing me out (and unemployment here is at a 20-year high), and I still don't have a permanent place to live (I'm subletting a furnished apartment until February), I absolutely love London, my relationship with Jessica just gets better every day, and I'm happier than I've ever been.

Happy holidays and best wishes for the new year!

P.S. Jessica agreed to let me share this photo, which my mom took in Los Angeles.

Moving on

In moving out of the hotel, I had a lot to reflect on:

• I checked in May 25, with a 2-week reservation, and stayed for 5 months
• I read 12 books (My Year Off, Angela's Ashes, Time Traveller's Wife, How To Be a Brit, 'Tis, A Monk Swimming, Shantaram, Poems on the Underground, The Little Prince, Dummies Guide to Prince2, the Highway Code, and now the complete works of Sherlock Holmes)
• I've studied four chapters of my Italian book, and can say "I have a ski mask" in Italian ("ho una passamontagna")
• I joined a gym for 3 months, took 3 yoga classes per week, and lost 20 pounds
• I ate salad and hummus for two months (which probably contributed more to the weight loss than the gym)
• I found two tennis partners online, both of whom happened to be American.
• I joined a vegetarian meetup group, and met a lot of weird people.
• I've wandered around fifteen parks (Holland Park, Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens, Regents Park, Primrose Hill, Hampstead Heath, St. James's Park, Shoreditch Park, Battersea Park, Alexandra Park, Highgate Woods, Queen's Wood, Cherry Tree Park, Parsons Green, Jubilee Gardens)
• I've gone to seven concerts (Rufus Wainwright, Diana Krall, Moody Blues, Royal Philharmonic [twice], Mozart Festival Orchestra, and a classical pianist at St Martin's-in-the-Fields)
• I've seen six shows (War Horse, Blood Wedding, Brief Encounter, Cirque Surreal, Ballet Trockadero, and some play in Camberwell)
• I've watched seven films (Indiana Jones, Dr Zhivago, Buster Keaton, Wall-E, Rocky Horror, Somers Town, the Visitor, and the Pope's Toilet)
• And three DVDs (Eddie Izzard, Bellevue Rendezvous, This is England)
• I've watched six hours of TV, not including the Olympics
• I've been to seven museums (Natural History, British Museum, V&A, Tate Britain, Tate Modern, Science, and National Portrait Gallery)
• I've ridden the tube 212 times (estimated)
• I've attended dozens of free performances at National Theatre, Trafalgar Square, Hyde Park, and the Scoop
• I've journeyed three times outside of London (Trowbridge, Crawley, and Warwick)
• I've watched two fireworks shows (Shoreditch festival and Thames festival)
• I've seen one comedy show, one carnival (Notting Hill), one poetry reading, one Thai festival, and one gorilla run
• I've visited two cemeteries (Brompton and Highgate)
• I've gotten my NHS (National Health Services) card, my library card, and my provisional driver's license
• I bought a long rain coat, a sweater, two scarves, and a stripey shirt, so I could blend in.
• I've whiled away ten afternoons at the laundromat
• I've met Jessica's parents five times (and they took me to two of those shows)
• I missed the Duck Race at Mosely Lock, and have not yet been to the Doctor Who exhibition

Of course, I still have much to look forward to:

• I am going to see an animated movie about worms on Saturday, and a classic British cult film (Withnail & I) on Sunday
• I am going to a (free) New Orleans festival next weekend
• The Lord Mayor's Parade is in two weeks
• I have tickets to see Steve Winwood early November
• In mid-November, I am having dinner with some of Jessica's co-workers, and attending her friend's wedding (not related)
• I am returning to California for a week in early December
• I am running out of money mid-December
• I am seeing the "Pitmen Painters" mid-January

Here are some photos of the flat. Only two complaints: When I looked at the place (twice), I did not appreciate how loud, how often, or how early, the airplanes flew past; and I can't get the wireless to work, but just having a reliable Internet connection is fantastic. I may even hook up Skype again and call some people in the US! Here's a map to my new place.

A Tale of Two Interviews

"Severe delays due to an earlier person under a train." That was a warning I saw on the Underground a week ago. (Jessica suggested the person was probably no longer "early" but now "late.") It was interesting, but not really relevant, and I didn't think about it again.

Until this morning, when that same person apparently climbed under the train I needed to get to my interview. Yes, interview! After a two-month dry spell (mostly self-inflicted), I finally had not one, but two interviews today! (And, oddly, both were with online marketing firms.) The first was 2 miles away, I had 45 minutes, I was wearing a suit, and there was a person under my train!

A reasonable person would have hailed a cab, but I've taken a cab two miles in London and it cost US $30! After paying the security deposit and one month's rent on my new flat (which I'm moving into tomorrow), my bank account is looking pretty anemic, which is why I was hoofing it through Kensington Gardens, arriving two minutes early, soaking wet.

Still, I must have made a favorable impession, as they invited me to a second interview, and asked to check some technical references. My second interview of the day was a phone screen, but they also asked me to come in for a face-to-face, so I was feeling pretty good. However, the reality remains that I only applied for these positions out of desperation, and there's no way an online marketing firm doing web pages and video animations is going to hire a conservative old-school Unix practitioner like me.

But in the end, I couldn't help but feel I was still better off than my friend under the train. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any information on him over the web, except for a generic blurb in a BBC article from 1999.

"[The Jubilee line has] glass platform doors that match perfectly to the position of the train doors, making it difficult for passengers to fall in front of or under a train. 'The primary aim was to do with ventilation, and litter and human hair - we get tons and tons of human hair down the tunnels and it can take hours and hours of cleaning time,' [a spokeswoman] said. 'But of course there is the added safety benefit that it stops people committing suicide.'"

I also found that there are about 50 suicides per year (plus an undisclosed number of fatal accidents), the peak hour for tube suicides is 11am, and people who commit suicide by throwing themselves under a train are called 'one-unders'.

Thursday I should have photos of my new flat, but for now I've attached a picture of the marina right outside my flat. (That's the moon in the photo, although most days the sun looks about the same.)

Flats of fancy

As I've previously mentioned, renting an apartment -- sorry, "letting a flat" -- is completely different in the UK. Instead of landlords advertising in the classifieds, flats are registered with letting agents (similar to real estate agents, in that they're one step above used car salesmen) who advertise primarily via index cards pasted to their shop window.

If you're a typical renter, who knows where he wants to live, can commit for at least a year, and is willing to pay US $4,500 per month, this works out reasonably well--you call an agent and he does all the legwork for you. But if you're only willing to commit for 3 months, don't know the area, and are only willing to spend US $2,000/month -- ie, me -- then you're pretty much screwed. Agents won't talk to you, and there are no classifieds to check, and I wasn't about to go around checking every agent's shop window.

In early September, I stumbled upon the local version of craigslist -- called gumtree -- which did have some "short let" listings, though that was open to interpretation. (Many had a 6 month minimum, although one advertised rooms by the hour.) The pickings were slim, but I found a guy who was working abroad for three months and looking to rent his flat while he was away. In the US, that's called "housesitting," and you get paid to live in someone's home. Here, you pay them, but he only wanted US $2,000/month so I thought I was in business.

And it was a nice flat -- on the ground floor, with one bedroom, a small living room but big kitchen, and a patio in back. The only drawback was that he wasn't leaving until the end of September, and I didn't want to wait that long.

Fast forward to October, and I've looked at a dozen more places, talked to at least 50 owners or agents, travelled the length and breadth of London, spent a small fortune on phone calls and tube rides, and still haven't found anything as nice as the first place. I came close in Canary Wharf, which was tiny but was on the water and had floor-to-ceiling windows. I would have taken it except it was so far from Jess (and everything else) that I knew she'd never visit.

In fact, it was that realization -- plus the horrific studios I was seeing in central London -- that made me even consider Brentford, which was equally far from central London but in the opposite direction, close to where Jessica works. A woman was going to Africa for three months, and so was renting out her beautiful one bedroom flat overlooking water on both sides. I loved it immediately, but was concerned about how far it was from the city. (It's only 5 miles from where I'm currently staying, but remember that the average speed here is 5mph.)

After banging my head against the computer for about two hours, however, I discovered that with a monthly "season ticket" I could take the train for the same price as the tube, and it would only take 12 minutes longer! In fact, even though I'm further away, it takes the same amount of time to get to Jessica's house. (I'm still not really sure how that works.) So I took it. Now I just have to prove I can afford it, and I can move in 12 days.

Here is a map of London with placemarkers for every place I've considered. Light blue indicates where I'm currently staying (south), and where Jessica lives (north). Green are the two places I liked -- Brentford (west) and Canary Wharf (east). Note the big "hole" in the center -- those places go for £500-£800 per week, and my budget was £250.

The ones in dark blue I never even looked at -- they wanted 6 months minimum, or jacked up the price by 50% for a "short let," or in many cases they were already taken by the time I responded. (I read September was the worst time to be apartment hunting because 100,000 kids were flooding into London for college, all looking for apartments.)

In red are places I looked at that I wouldn't let a dog stay at. One place was so disgusting, I refused to even look at any other flats in that entire borough. Another place reeked of cigarette smoke, primarily because the owner was sitting on the sofa smoking! Most of the places didn't even have enough space to turn around, and almost none of them had an oven, never mind a washing machine. One had a shower between the bed and the kitchen, and the toilet was down the hall! (Funny how they forgot to mention that in the ad.) Almost all of them had a view of a brick wall, or a busy high street, or just didn't have any windows at all. (One was literally a hallway, with two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.) In other words, it was the most depressing bunch of places you've ever seen, and they cost as much as my 1200 square-foot loft in downtown LA!

The ones in purple were just scams. (And no, I didn't wire anybody any money.)

Yellow were places I was interested in, but didn't get a chance to look at, usually because the agent didn't return my call despite me leaving messages every day for the last three days. I had appointments with three places today, but decided to cancel them and take Brentford because they were too expensive, too inconvenient, or -- at Holly Lodge Estate -- too "soulless," as Jess described it. The buildings were lovely, the streets were wide, there was plenty of green, it was just a few minutes walk to Hampstead Heath on one side and the tube on the other, and it was only 2 miles from Jessica's -- in other words, ideal -- but it had such a "Stepford Wives" vibe, with absolute conformity, that I knew I couldn't stay there. (Interesting side-note, Wikipedia reports it was built in the 1920s for single women only.)

Anyone who remembers my dilemma in Los Angeles -- the nice, safe apartment vs. the raw, funky loft -- may see similar overtones here, but that's not the case. The flat in Brentford is lovely--who knew I had the exact same decorating taste as a British woman in her 50's? There is nothing raw or funky about the place: the ceiling is finished, the floors are wood, not cement, and the kitchen is not in the middle of the living room. And best of all, it comes fully furnished, and is filled with plants. There is a large private garden nearby, and Kew Gardens is just across the Thames. I think it will be a little awkward staying in somebody else's place -- since I obviously can't personalize it very much -- but I suspect that come January, when she returns from Africa, I will be very sorry to leave.

Heck, I'm sorry to be leaving the hotel I'm at. I know that sounds crazy, but this is a small, family-run place, and I've gotten to know the owners (and the four chambermaids they've gone through) quite well. They've given me a free hand, trusted me completely, and even asked me to man the phones occasionally. They've fed me, helped me, and are even trying to teach me Italian. (Imparo lentamente.) They have been my surrogate family, and good friends, and I will miss having them around. (I will also miss them making breakfast and cleaning up after me.) Ma la vita continua...

Oh, more British-isms:

• torch = flashlight
• jumper = sweater
• till = cash register
• way out = exit
• full stop = period
• hash = pound sign
• hob = stove
• trousers = pants
• cuffs = shirt cuffs
• turn-ups = pant cuffs
• mange-tout = sugar snap peas
• dustman = garbage collector (or "sanitation engineer")
• rocket lettuce = arugula
• basil = basil (yeah, they're spelled the same but pronounced completely differently)

Oh, and some more photos

"traffic" was taken when I was returning the rental car, last week. (FYI, the bastards refused to reschedule or refund my money, so I reported them to my credit card company, contesting the charge on the grounds that they didn't deliver the service or disclose the terms. We'll see what happens.)

"battersea" is the power station, which is actually quite beautiful now that it's not choking London with coal smoke. Normally closed to the public, they're talking about turning it into high-end residences so they let everyone tour it one day. (With the current housing market, I'm sure the plans will be scrapped.)

"electric_car" is just that. It's top speed is 50mph, it only goes 60 mph on a charge, and it makes the "Smartcar" looking positively roomy. But it's a perfect commuter car for London, and between the cost of gas, parking, and the congestion charge (none of whch you have to pay for), I don't understand why everyone doesn't have one.

"millenium_bridge" is a footbridge across the Thames, built in 2000, hence the name. (Jess told me it was originally built as a swaying bridge, but so many people got sick, they stiffened it a bit.) That's St Paul's in the background.

"merlyn1" is the hotel I'm staying at, and "merlyn2" is my room in the basement. Google maps, if you want to find me. So far no luck finding more permanent digs.

"lion1" is at the base of Trafalgar Square. I took this today; it's been a month since I've seen the sun, and I was quite excited.

"sherlock_holmes" is a nighttime shot of the museum at 221B Baker Street, which is sandwiched between 235 and 239 Baker Street. I read it's the only museum in the world dedicated to a fictional character. (And 221B was not a real address, so obviously they took some liberties when creating the museum.)

"london_skyline" is the London Eye ferris wheel, Westminster (houses of Parliament, the equivalent of our Congress), and Big Ben.

"fireworks1" is the end of the Thames festival, a couple of weeks ago. They launched them from boats, and we watched from bridges.

"warwick1" (the second "w" is silent, of course) is Warwick Castle -- not bad from a crappy cell phone. I took it during a break in the rain.

"trebuchet2" is also at Warwick Castle, and is purported to be the largest in the world. It works just like a catapult, except it swings the payload at the end, adding extra "oomph." They threw a 200-pound fireball, but it was raining so hard that the fire was immediately extinguished. :-(

"haircut" is, well, let's just say, "where else but Britain?"

"police_box" is for any Doctor Who fans out there.

And "jess" is the best photo I have of her, sorry. (It is also an excellent demonstration of the "two-fingered salute" I mentioned yesterday...)

Ode to London

Today marks my 4 month anniversary in London, and if you've been reading my emails (and following my blog before that), you might think I hate it here.

In fact, the exact opposite is true.

Oh sure, not seeing the sun for weeks at a time has been a little depressing, not finding a job has been a little frustrating, living in a hotel has been a little maddening, and learning how to drive all over again has been a little humbling. But all of the things I complained about in LA -- the sprawl, the lack of public transportation, the generic suburbs, the lack of culture and history -- are all notably absent here. In addition, I thought LA was multi-cultural, but there are street corners in London where I can find people from 50 different countries. I think the city is amazing.

My California friends have probably heard this: California, by itself, is the seventh largest economy in the world. That's quite remarkable, until you consider that the UK is less than two-thirds the size of California, and is the fifth largest economy in the world. London has over 12,000 people per square mile, 60% more than Los Angeles. (And if you thought LA was a sprawl, London comprises 600 square miles; LA county is just 500 square miles.) Hard to believe that so many people, from so many backgrounds, can not only come together and get along, but thrive.

Ironically, with all those people, London also feels safer. I read that you're five times more likely to be robbed, and 11 times more likely to be murdered, in New York City than in London. And while New York has just Central Park at 843 acres, London has the equivalent of eight Central Parks -- Richmond Park (2,360 acres), Bushy Park (1,100 acres), Hampstead Heath (791 acres), Hampton Court Park (700 acres), Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens (625 acres), Regents Park (487 acres), Kew Gardens (300 acres), Victoria Park (218 acres), Battersea Park (200 acres), Alexandra Park (196 acres), Greenwich Park (183 acres), and Green Park/St James's Park (111 acres), not including all of the small parks and private squares. I think it's simply fantastic.

That's not to say it's Shangri-la, of course. The taxes are ridiculously high, but nobody complains because it used to be much worse. The roads are a rat's maze, the average speed during rush hour is less than 5mph, the subway system is on the brink of collapse, and although violent crime is rare, the overall crime rate is still high. I hate the smoking and littering, although I think the city is kept remarkably clean in spite of it. I also hate feeling like I'm taking my life in my hands every time I cross the street. And, of course, the cost of living here is astronomical. Yet thousands -- if not millions -- of immigrants survive just fine, so I think the real problem is that I'm not used to the style of living here. (Note I said "style," not standard.)

The population density also means everything is small: small streets, small cars, small houses, and astoundingly small bathrooms. I've looked at apartments that are 160 square feet, including the kitchen, with a bathroom wedged into a closet! (And they cost more than my 1,200 square foot apartment in Los Angeles, except these have no view!) When designing the bathrooms for the B&B, I thought they were ridiculously tiny; now I think they are palatial. (I also changed the kitchen layout because it only had 16 square feet of surface space; the new layout has 30 square feet. Most kitchens here have 4 square feet, and I'm not exaggerating.)

My timing couldn't have been worse, with a dreadful currency rate and looming economic depression. I figured that with my experience at an investment company, I could easily find work in London, the financial capital of Europe--little did I realize what the "credit crunch" portended. Still, despite all of it, I love it here. Of course, if I hadn't met Jessica, would I feel the same affinity for the city? I think so. I was here almost a month before I met her, and I was already quite smitten with the city. (Plus there was the week I spent here in 2003, which obviously made me comfortable enough to move here.) That Jess was here is just remarkably good fortune.

The big question is, did I find what I was looking for? I was looking for a change, a challenge, a way to force myself out of my rut and confront my assumptions and understand how other people live. I was trying to find the "real" me, free of externalities and custom and convention. In other words, all of the things I was looking for in Pennsylvania, but did not get a chance to do. Still, I've had a remarkable journey over the past four years: restoring the B&B, moving to Pennsylvania, living in the country, changing careers, getting divorced, being a million dollars in debt, returning to LA and experiencing the city of my birth in a completely different light, spending time with my family, moving to London, and now falling in love again. Of course I would have liked to have done more of all of it (except, perhaps, the divorce, although that was obviously a necessary step in my eventual growth). I've learned a lot about myself: That I'm resilient, I can handle change, I can love unconditionally, that I have some basic needs but I can be happy just about anywhere. These are all things I wanted to believe about myself but never really had an opportunity to test, and I'm grateful for all of my experiences, and everyone who has contributed to them. And yes, I think I found what I was looking for.

One odd thing I've noticed is my new circle of friends consist of a South African, an Italian, a Kenyan, a Slovakian, and two Americans. Not a Brit in sight. This is partly my fault: I assumed I'd meet enough Brits through work, so I have not gone out of my way to introduce myself. (I'd also planned a heavy dating regime, which ended before it even began after my second date with Jess.) I have gone to a couple of "vegetarian meetups" where I happened to sit with an Australian, an Italian, a Romanian, and another American, but no Brits. I've read that over 25% of London's population are immigrants, so I shouldn't be surprised.

So that's all; no funny anecdotes, no self-deprecating humour, no crazy rants about unyielding bureaucrats, just a little bit of information about me, because that's another thing I've learned about myself over the past four years: That I can share my thoughts and feelings without worrying about how others see me. I've learned I have good friends, people I can trust, people who care about me and support me and want the best for me. Of course, when I run out of money in a couple of months, we'll see who is still talking to me.

P.S. Okay, one funny anecdote: This morning I made a rather embarrassing discovery at the laundromat. Washing machines here have two detergent slots, for wash and pre-wash, and it turns out I've been using the wrong one. For four months. You'd think at some point I would notice--or someone would point out--that I hadn't actually cleaned my clothes in four months, but no. Worse, I didn't discover this until after I had done the wash, and I didn't have enough change to do it again, so it will be another two weeks before my clothes see soap. They'll probably disintegrate.

Oh, and some Brit-speak I've learned, in no particular order:

• pram or pushchair = stroller
• manky = dirty
• nappy = diaper
• dummy = pacifier
• brilliant = well done (sometimes used sarcastically)
• anti-clockwise = counter-clockwise
• braces = suspenders
• suspenders = garter belt
• plebian = ignorant
• chav = trailer trash (not exact, but closest equivalent I can find)
• bin = toss (throw something away)
• blue badge = handicapped placard
• Continent = rest of Europe
• lorry = truck
• boot = trunk
• flat = apartment
• lift = elevator
• 1st floor = 2nd floor
• pavement = sidewalk
• tap = faucet
• toilet = bathroom
• amber = yellow
• holiday = vacation
• return = round-trip
• half-eight = eight thirty (as in time)
• snog = make out (as in kissing)
• whinge = complain
• squidgy = soft
• stroppy = mad
• soppy = sad
• floppy = lazy
• mate = friend (of either sex)
• two finger salute = the bird (same as "victory" sign, but with palm facing the other way)
• naff = uncool
• daft = stupid
• kip = nap
• football = soccer
• gutted = upset
• the bill = the check
• chuffed = pleased (archaic, used primarily by London's mayor)
• cheers = thanks
• Bob's your uncle = that's it (as in, that's all there is to it)
• on your bike = get lost
• zed = 26th letter of the alphabet
• pinch = steal
• put paid to = to stop something
• posh = snobbish (originally, acronym for Port Out, Starboard Home, the most
• expensive cabins on the route to India)
• rotor = schedule
• quid = a pound (as in money. They also use "dollar" as a pound, which is quite confusing)
• tin = can (as in a can of beans)
• pot = jar (as in a pot of yoghurt)
• cock up = mistake
• bum = butt
• bollocks = balls
• camp = gay
• pissed = drunk (other terms include sloshed, legless, motherless, plastered, rat arsed, shitfaced, etc.)
• take the piss = make fun of someone
• mind the gap = no American translation, because in America they would never acknowledge the gap, because then they'd be legally responsible for the gap.

I'm still working on my cockney rhyming slang. The mechanics are simple enough: you take a common, two-word phrase where the second word rhymes with the word you want to use, and use the first word instead. So instead of "have a look" you might say "have a butcher's" because "butcher's hook" rhymes with "look." The problem is, you can't just make up your own rhymes; you have to know the specific, original phrases...and nobody will tell you what they are. In some cases, they have no idea themselves: "Taking the mickey" (or "taking the mick") is cockney slang for "taking the piss," and while the assumption is "Mickey Bliss" is the original phrase, nobody knows where "Mickey Bliss" came from!

Driving in London, part 2 of 3

Last Friday, I passed my theory test, missing only one question on the multiple-choice. (Although they don't tell you which you got wrong, I'm pretty sure it was the question about when you can reverse around the corner from a minor road onto a major road. I answered "Never" but -- this being England -- I'm sure that was wrong. You can do anything here.)

I got 71% on the hazard perception, primarily because I didn't understand what I was supposed to do for the first four or five videos. I was clicking the mouse when the car was supposed to *react* to certain events, but I was supposed to click when I saw the event that would *result* in the car reacting to them. In other words, I was clicking at the last possible moment, which was bad, and so for those clips I got a 1 out of a possible 5. (But 57% is passing, and a blind man clicking drunk could have scored that, so who cares.)

The next (and last) step is the road test, which you can't schedule until after you've passed the theory. Fortunately, the driving instructor last week let me know that different test centers have different wait times. What he didn't warn me was that there were over 40 test centers within 20 miles of me, and I'd have to look up each schedule, one by one. It took me an hour and a half to discover that most test centers didn't have any availability until mid-November, but one center had an appointment on Monday. I called the instructor -- because I needed his car for the test -- and he basically told me I would fail, and I should schedule it for November.

While I appreciated his brutal honesty, I am not a patient man, and waiting two months was not an option. Still, it was going to be hard to pass a driving test without a car. As I was stiting at the laundromat watching my clothes spin -- another exciting day in London -- I realized that with my US license, I could rent a car!

So I signed up for the Monday appointment (and paid the £67 fee, because 4:30pm is considered "evening" and incurs a £10 surcharge.), then called Avis and found manual cars are £30, but automatics are £84 (US $160)!! After considerable effort, I found Europcar had one for £39, but they were inside the congestion zone, so that added another £8, and of course I took out full insurance for another £12, plus £9 in petrol. Including the £50 for my provisional license, £30 to take the theory test, £10 for a test book, and £4 for the tube, this stupid driver's license has cost me £230 (US $435)!! In the US, I could have bought a car for that money.

On a side note, I have also resumed my search for a flat (apartment), as three months in a hotel is bordering on ridiculous. I still don't want to commit myself for a year, but I have found several "short-term" flats, and figured I could check them out with a car. What I didn't expect is that the letting agents -- who actually get paid if I rent the flat -- don't actually have any interest in showing the flat. So despite multiple attempts (via email and phone), only one agent out of six called me back and set up an appointment. (One agent even has a voice mail message that says they only schedule appointments online or in person, and don't bother leaving a message as they won't call you back. I'm not kidding!)

Still, I figured I could at least check out the areas, since (like any metro area) some parts are better than others. I also had to stop by Jessica's because Mill Hill (where I was taking my test) wasn't on my London map, and I was borrowing a bigger atlas from her. I wanted to avoid rush hour so I scheduled the rental for 10am. Their web site said it was next to the Victoria Coach Station, and my map showed Victoria Bus Station right next to the tube station, so I was all set. Except when I arrived at 10am, there were no rental cars, and nobody had any idea where I should go. (And of course I didn't bring the phone number.)

I finally realized that in England, a "bus" is for short distances and a "coach" is for long distances, and the Victoria Bus Station and Victoria Coach Station are not the same, and I needed to be half a mile away. It was after 11am when I picked up the car, and at my first stop -- in Shepherd's Bush -- I took the wrong exit from the roundabout, and ended up on the A40. That wouldn't have been a problem -- I just got off at the next exit -- except the next exit was full of roadworks, and it took me over half an hour to go three blocks. So now it was noon, I only had four hours until my test, I was starving and grumpy, and I really didn't need any more practice idling in traffic.

Google Maps says my route should have been 38 miles; my odometer said I went 80 miles. I took a lot of detours. I did arrive for the 4:30pm test in time -- a few minutes early, actually -- but there was a sign outside that read, "Test takers park at the top of the hill," so I did, and I waited. And I waited. And I waited. The parking lot was full of kids taking lessons on backing up and parallel parking, and it was the scariest place in the world to wait, but there were no signs and nobody to talk to, so I just waited. Finally one of the instructors -- after his student came to a violent and unexpected stop right next to me -- told me I had to go to the office furthest away from the parking lot, and I better hurry because if I was late they would cancel my test.

I found the office and gave them my paperwork, including the rental car information because they have to see registration and proof of insurance. The guy threw the paperwork back at me and told me I couldn't take the test in a rental car.

I like to think of myself as pretty jaded, and not surprised by much, but his reason was so stupendously bureaucratic, it shocked me: I couldn't take the test in a rental car, he said, because even though I could drive the car using my international license, and I had full insurance using my international license, the minute he got in the car with me I was no longer 'using' my international license, but my provisional UK license, and the car rental didn't insure learner drivers.

I was flummoxed, but it was obvious I wasn't going to convince him how ridiculous that was, so I asked about rescheduling and he told me -- with a straight face -- that because I didn't come prepared, my test was cancelled and my fee was forfeit, and I would have to pay another £67 to reschedule! I was pissed* but, again, there was no point in arguing with him; I'll call the agency in the morning and give them hell. Obviously, this isn't over yet.

Like most people who fail their driving test, I got in the car and drove off by myself. I called Jessica and asked if she wanted to meet for dinner, since I was about halfway between her work and home, but we couldn't figure out a meeting point, so we decided to meet at her house. Although she was twice as far, she got there half an hour before I did. I drove her to dinner (like a proper date) for the first time, and then returned her safely home, although I did crunch the curb there and back again. (And one time I wasn't even parallel parking!)

Jess gave me explicit directions back to Victoria, and told me it should take 45 minutes. I didn't want to admit it took me 90 minutes, so I sent her an ambiguous text message, "Made it," hoping she'd assume I returned the car, caught the tube, and already walked back to my hotel. She replied, "All the way home?!" so I had to admit that, no, I was still at the car park. I never get away with anything.

In reflection, not being allowed to take the test doesn't bother me -- I still need more practice, although trying to extort another £67 is ridiculous -- but I drove for 8 solid hours and only went 80 miles. That's 10 miles per hour! If the goal was to practice driving, then it was a success. If the goal is to actually get somewhere, then I really don't want to drive in London.

Below is a map of my driving route today, even though it looks like evidence in a DUI conviction. As I've mentioned, the Brits take great pleasure in not posting street names, so this is really a 'best guess' as to where I might have been. I have, for reasons of personal respect, left out all of the little streets that I turned into when I got lost, only to get even more lost. (It turns out maps don't really help when you don't have street names.) I have also not indicated the number of times I went through the same roundabout, or came up the same hill, although suffice it to say that 3 was not an uncommon number.

Next post: My even-more depressing search for a short-term let.

* In Britain, "being pissed" means drunk, not angry.

Driving in London

Driving in London is absolute chaos. Not because they drive on the left -- there's no clear advantage to right vs left, as long as everyone follows the same convention -- but many streets are so narrow, only one car can fit, and yet it is a two-way street! Drivers don't follow lane markers; it seemed you could park anywhere and in any direction (including the middle of the street, in some places); you don't stop at intersections; there are few crosswalks; the signs make no sense; and the road markings make even less sense.

Two weeks ago I read the Highway Code and the signs and road markings now make sense, but driving was still madness. So I did what any 16-year-old would do: I signed up for driving lessons. For an obscene amount of money, I had a two-hour lesson, and the instructor -- who was Nigerian but had lived in Miami and New York City -- stressed three main points: positioning, priority, and consideration. Positioning is where you put your vehicle, and it has nothing to do with lane markers; those can be helpful at times, and completely ignored at others. For example, if there are no cars parked on the left side, you should be a "drain's width" (about a foot) from the curb (or bicycle lane). If there are cars parked on the left, you should be a meter away to avoid car doors, because they have the "right" to open their door without fear, even if double-parked! (Try that in the US.) On narrow streets, with cars parked on both sides, that means you have to drive down the middle of the road! If there is oncoming traffic, then you need to slow down and get back on the left, or possibly even pull over in a really narrow road.

Priority is just that: Cars on main streets have priority over those entering from a side street, etc. There are two dashed lines at intersections to indicate "give way" and if you can see in both directions and determine it's safe to go before you reach those lines, then there is no need to stop. If there is traffic, you may need to stop, or even do a "creep and peep," but bottom line is you're responsible for pulling out. In a roundabout, you have to give priority to those already in the roundabout, those entering the roundabout from the right (unless you can safely enter before they get there), and oncoming traffic turning right (your left) because -- well, I'm not sure why, but you do. (Roundabouts are a whole different beast, and there's not much point to explaining them to anyone in the US, but there are guidelines for entering and exiting that make them more of a choreographed ballet than the free-for-all they appear.)

In my last email, I jokingly referred to consideration as determining priority, but it is actually the basis for determining fault. Unlike the US, where the laws (and lanes) are clearly defined to specify right-of-way, they have no concept of right-of-way here. As the instructor explained, if a pedestrian steps out in traffic and you hit him, the police look for skid marks: If you tried to stop, then it was the pedestrian's fault; if you didn't, then it's your fault, because you didn't give him consideration. If you were driving on the left and someone tried to overtake you on the right, but you suddenly swerved to get around a stopped bus and hit the other car, he was at fault -- because he should have realised you needed to go around the bus, and didn't show consideration. Similarly, if you are driving and an oncoming car swings into your lane to get around a stopped bus and hits you, it would be your fault if you could have anticipated this and moved over to the left!

Any set of rules will work as long as everyone follows them, but I think it's fantastic that they don't just have a different set of rules, but a whole different mindset. By making the driver responsible not just for his car, but really for the whole road, it makes it much more challenging, but ironically much safer. (The instructor told me the UK has the lowest incident of traffic accidents, per capita, in the world.) And it makes sense -- in the US, the rules are very specific in order to determine fault; here the rules are very loose, and fault is a judgment call based on the road and circumstances.

I think the most telling statistic about the safety of UK roads is that only 42% pass the driving test the first time. So now when I see people rolling through intersections, or driving 30 mph down the middle of a narrow road, or reversing around a corner, or driving into oncoming traffic, I no longer think of it as reckless driving, but controlled chaos, and I understand the method to the madness.

On Friday I will be taking my "theory" test and "hazard perception" test. Assuming I pass, I can then sign up for the practical (road) test, but I've been told there is a two-month waiting list!

P.S. Driving on the left is easier than it looks, probably because I've spent the last two weeks "thinking" about driving on the left. That is, I'd watch cars and imagine myself in the driver's seat, and when I was on a double-decker bus, I'd go up top and sit on the right, above the driver, and watch the road. (Being a passenger in a car didn't help because I was sitting on the left, so everything felt backwards.) The only thing I found difficult is that when turning right, you're supposed to go to the far-left lane. The US equivalent would be turning left into the far-right lane. Try it some time--I'm sure you'll find it just as disconcerting. (And should you hit anyone, you'll be at fault, because you didn't have the right-of-way.)

The future of America

This is a short email, I promise, but I'm so chuffed about the NHS, I just had to share. NHS is, of course, UK's National Health Service. I thought I was excluded from the plan but it turns out, if you live in the UK, you're covered. (And they don't really care if you live in the UK, either.) So last week I signed up and saw a nurse for a basic checkup, and today I went and saw a doctor about my asthma--all free. She prescribed 4 drugs, each a 3 month supply. In the states, I would have to go the pharmacist three times and paid US $120. Here, I went once, and paid £28 (about US $52). But wait, it gets better, because the NHS has a "prescription pre-payment certificate" and so, for £28, all of my prescriptions are covered for the next three months. So in about 11 weeks, I'm going to go back and get all of my prescriptions refilled...for free. Now, you're probably thinking it doesn't quite seem fair that all of the working people in the UK have to subsidize my medical care when I'm an immigrant, in reasonably good health, and perfectly capable of working. Well you, my friend, are a selfish, petty, greedy, capitalist pig. -Gregg