On travel writing and Padstow, Cornwall

I just signed up for a Lonely Planet account with the views of eventually soliciting road trip companions--although I've received so many warnings of 'You'll be raped!' from well-intentioned friends that now I'm all paranoid-like--but anyway, until I figure out if that's a direction I want to go--soliciting the company of strangers, that is, not rape--I've at least taken the step of joining this huge travel community. And part of the profile set-up process includes a section for blog information. And, you know, I've got one and all, so I typed it in, and then it asked if I want it to be considered by the Lonely Planet team as a possible Blog They Like, and of course I clicked 'yes,' because hey, cool, a Lonely Planet Blog! They may think I'm useful and/or worth pimping out to other travelers! But now, after doing all that, I've come back to my blog and--wait a tick! I don't actually talk much travel! So now I'm all thinking I should do a post on backpacking through Laos and eating steamed dragon balls sold to me by a legless orphan in a busy marketplace, where I also took the opportunity to bathe myself for the first time in two months from the town well using nothing but the dirty rag tied around my neck before recycling the water for drinking purposes, that way when Lonely Planet comes to check me out they'll be all impressed, like, 'HERE'S a real traveler,' and then they'll include me in their blogroll and never look back, at which point I'll be free to resume writing about sitting at the kitchen table all day and they'll never know I'm a total fraud. Or that I'm prone to massive run-ons. It will be the scam of a century. Even hotter than the recent one I heard (thanks to a documentary just aired over here, although after some research, it appears this rumor has been ongoing for a few years now, get WITH it, England) about how America faked Neil Armstrong landing on the moon just to win the Cold War. Though I'm not gonna lie when I say I would probably be just as proud if the latter were true. Because awesome. We could do that.

I should probably post some more Cornwall photos now. Because, you know, I've got a travel blog. It's what I do, Lonely Planet.

These pictures were all taken in Padstow, the foodie mecca of Cornwall thanks to Rick Stein. Apparently he owns about half the town's property, as evidenced by the Stein Bakery, Stein Deli, Stein Patisserie, and the Stein I Can Cook Whatever the Heck I Want and You'll Eat It Because I'm Rick Stein. Word on the street he gets mad when you call Padstow 'Padstein,' but really, can you blame anybody? And also, how cool would it be if a town took on your name because your effect is so huge? Heck, if a town started to call itself Padselby, I'd be SO DOWN WITH THAT. In fact, I'm starting a movement right now: everyone, this is Padselby. Welcome.

If Dolores Park and Pac Heights had a love child, this is what it would look like.

Primrose Hill has been on my to-visit list since...well, since I moved here a year ago, really. But it was also one of those places you can be like, 'I'll go next week,' and then next thing you know you're moving away and thinking, 'SON OF A!' So then you sprint over, camera in hand, and then think, 'Oh. I think we've got one of these in San Francisco.'

As far as 'parks on a hill with a view of the city' go, it was remarkably similar to Dolores Park. Except bigger. And with really wealthy, over-dressed people, AND the chance that you may run into Gwyneth and Jude (but not Madonna, who I hear kicks it in East London, but again, all hearsay, don't use this information on Jeopardy), and with a few dozen more tourists. 'They say' the best time to go is sunset, but this time of year that's 8:30, which means by the time the sun went down, I would have been too busy chewing off my arm to take a photo. I personally called it a day around 6:30 because HELLO, feeding time!, and headed down the hill to Lemonia on Regent's Park Road (which, by the way, was amazing, DO IT. Also, make a reservation, because then you feel like a stud when you pass the crowd at the door and get seated immediately).

Primrose Hill is an authentic London village, both in the denotative definition ('any neighborhood that doesn't have its own tube stop,' which is a definition people from Crouch End are quick to point out), and in the connotative definition (small, intimate, charming, self-sufficient). It's also one of the loveliest parts of London I've seen yet. It felt very...SAFE. And quiet. And all the dogs you passed were tiny and groomed, and the owners were smiley and gracious, and everybody appeared to know each other, and it made you think how nice it would be to live there and wear big sweaters and have your own stall at the annual street fair.

You can tell by the shops alone what sort of person lives here: the kind that are into pets, paper, and patisseries. Islington, where I live, is lined with vinyl shops and antique stores. Cool in a John Cusack sort of way, less cool in a stepping-around-piles-of-dog-crap sort of way.

For all of London's usually-appalling weather, there is a significant bike community here. Although some of the hardcore riders would be pressed to tell you that most of the summer bikers are 'fairweather posers.' I don't believe it. I mean, this girl above looks like she pushes her bike ALL the time.

Dolores Park? Or Primrose Hill? Wait. There aren't any drag queens. Definitely Primrose Hill.

This is the view you hear so much about. It makes you feel like you're a million miles away from London while being in the heart of it.

When you finally get to the top of the hill, you feel like this guy looks.

Yep. From up here, you can see the BT Tower, and the London Eye...

...and St. Paul's With Its Many Cranes...

...and my personal favorite: 30 St. Mary Axe looking for all the world like it's trying to hide behind some buildings. Come ON, St. Mary, we can see you back there. You're a giant GHERKIN.

My favorite row of houses...living here has GOT to be like permanent Easter.

Is it just me, or does that stroller look like a lawn mower? OMIGOSH, I just had A BRILLIANT IDEA: somebody should invent a lawn-mower-stroller! You could use it to cut the grass AND lull your baby to sleep, all in one go! I can see the commercial now... (fade into a tired mother, pushing an old, unwieldy stroller): 'How many times have you taken your baby for a walk to put them to sleep and found yourself circling the same park for hours at a stretch, while your chores list back home grows beneath your weary feet? Well, now you can knock off one of those chores while you're walking, using the LaMoStro--the one and only stroller that also trims your lawn! The humming and vibrating of the motor will sooth your little one to an instant slumber while your yardwork takes care of itself!' (switch to a view of the happy, invigorated mother next door, effortlessly pushing the LaMoStro around her pristine lawn, while her good-humored baby sleeps with a smile on his cherubic face. She waves merrily at Worn Mother trudging up her weed-covered drive.) (fade out to: 'Naptime will never be the same again: LaMoStro.')

Oh, this is gonna be GOOD. I can FEEL it.

And once the millions start rolling in, I'm SO getting this house. Primrose Hill won't even know what hit 'em...

A quiet Saturday night, in which I turn into a prune

I was going to go to a movie tonight, but then I passed HMV and thought, 'Or I could BUY a movie for ten pounds and keep it forever!' So I did. Highlander was of course the obvious choice, given that one, I'd never seen it, two, I'll watch anything with Sean Connery in it, and three, I was once exclaimed at incredulously, 'You haven't seen Highlander?? Aren't you AMERICAN??', which I thought was an interesting thing to say about a movie dealing with a Scottish guy from the Highlands. Also, I've always fancied myself a bit of a undiscovered mystical warrior, just waiting for that moment in life when someone will approach me while I'm hustling at a pool hall in the middle of the Arizona desert and say, 'This is not for you. You are the Chosen One,' and then next thing you know, I'm wearing a tunic and being taught how to Fight With Integrity by a guy with a long ponytail in the heart of a Japenese forest.

Looking at the back of the box, I see that Sean's (yes, we're on a first name basis) character's name is 'Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez.' I mean, I don't want to be too hasty here in assuming that's a Latin name, but...Sean? Really?

Also according to the box, Villa-Lobos Ramirez (okay, for current peace of mind, I'm just going to have to assume that's just an old, lesser-known Scottish clan) is the one who teaches Highlander 'the ways of the sword.' I LOVE the expression 'the ways of.' It just REALLY pleases me for some reason. The ways of the sword. The ways of the sushi. The ways of the pedicure. Everything becomes an art form when you say it like that.

I'm going to watch the movie from a bubble bath, I think. I've long since discovered all movies are better from the perspective of a bathtub. Especially chick flicks (does Highlander count as a chick flick? How hot is this 'Christopher Lambert' guy? Even more notably, how hot was he in 1986 when I was five and this movie came out?). As for how it's possible to watch a movie from the bathtub without a flat screen installed in the opposite wall (complete with waterproof remote control), which I've JUST NOW REALIZED is my life's dream, right behind being discovered as the Chosen One, it's easy--just put your laptop on the toilet lid or the bathroom counter (make sure it's dry!) and watch it from there! Sure, putting expensive electronic equipment in the bathroom is a possible 'hazard', but as long as you aren't, say, dripping bubbles all over the keyboard when you want to turn up the volume, you're FINE. Trust me. I'm very experienced in the ways of the bath.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Mr. Lambert and Señor Connery, who are anxious to get this show on the road...

I GOT IN!

Okay, so before I retire to the couch with my book for the ultimate luxury of a real-life, bon-a-fide, nothing-niggling-in-the-background afternoon off, I want to tell you the good news: I got offered a spot to study furniture and product design at an art school here in London! Hence all that portfolio talk as of late and all the stress and anxiety that's dangled me over the brink of madness so many times recently--but now it's over! I got in!

A bit about my interview this morning: I knew in advance that I was getting interviewed by the Head of the Upholstery department (let's call him 'Pop-Pop'), so right away I wanted to dress in a way that would make him think 'upholstery.' I decided to wear brown corduroy culottes, a navy blue tank top made of recycled vintage prints, and a pair of slightly-heeled walnut-colored sandals. If there was ever a look that said 'really cool chair,' it was this one. So I'm feeling good, I'm feeling upholstered, and I even get there early and find the right building on my first try. I am TOGETHER.

Then the lobby starts filling up with other applicants. We're all crammed onto benches and leaning against walls, secretly checking each other out. After all, we're all applying for any spots that are left open, and I know my program only takes 30 a year. The girls are gorgeous and glammed up, wearing long necklace chains and bright red lipstick and carrying collages, and the guys are spiked high, wielding giant black portfolios and looking smug. And here I am, with a small black binder tucked into a tote bag, looking like a seat cushion.

Then I get called into the interview room, and find myself face-to-face with the interviewers. Pop-Pop was just as I had anticipated. But then there was the second interviewer, the wild card, the one I didn't expect. Unlike Pop-Pop, this tutor did NOT smack of upholstery. He smacked of art and hipness and designer-confidence. In fact, I think I saw him ride into the building on a motorcycle in full leather gear earlier that morning. He appeared to be the polar opposite of the kindly, blue-eyed Pop-Pop, twinkling away at the table next to him. Let's call this other tutor 'Craig.'

Craig opens up by describing the design program. He wants to make sure that what they offer is what I'm looking for: 'If you want to design, say...a watch [here he flicks his glittering Omega], then this is not the course for you. We don't teach mechanics, we don't teach load-bearing. See this chair I'm sitting on? Chairs have to be built to hold 16 stone. If you weigh more than that, then...well, you've got bigger problems. [chuckles to himself] But that's not my point. My point is that you don't get taught that here. There's no engineering, no applied science. You are here to learn DESIGN.' 'So, like, vases?' Pop-Pop looks pleased, hammers the table: 'YES!' 'And lamps?' 'YES! EXACTLY!' Craig looks happy that I have understood the concept so far. He goes on: 'And the study is very self-directed, based on what your personal focus is. Say you decide you want to re-design light switches. We would LOVE that. It's DIFFERENT.' I decide to try a furniture-design joke: 'So I shouldn't say I want to design chairs?' Pop-Pop roars with laughter. He knows full well we are in Chair Central here. Craig requests my portfolio. I explain that I wasn't sure what exactly a furniture design portfolio should look like (Pop-Pop chuckles sympathetically), so I created one that covered a few different disciplines (drawing, building, shooting, and writing). Craig opens it up, expresses approval at the layout. He gets to the sketches first. This was by far the most nerve-wracking section, as I haven't drawn in some time. I'm pretty sure a couple of these sketches even pre-date my period.

But then...three deep, the sketch that solidified my position not only in the furniture design course, but in their hearts forever...Please note that I was very worried about including this picture at all, because one, reproducing a cartoon is no doubt death to a portfolio, two, drawing cartoons is something every teenager on the planet can do and is very much an art phase to be grown out of, and three, come ON, it's a REPRODUCED CARTOON. Not even an ORIGINAL. Alas, I couldn't stop myself, because it's a picture that makes ME happy, and everybody needs a pick-me-up in the middle of an interview, and if this doesn't make you overjoyed, then you have no soul:

Craig stops here: 'Do you like Calvin & Hobbes?'
'Do I like them? I LOVE them!'
'I have the entire box set!'
'Do you?? I want it, but my whole collection is piecemeal!'
'Mine was, too, but I wanted to treat myself! Can you believe how selfish he was to stop drawing after only ten years??'
'I know! And now he's just painting for fun in Arizona or something?? Crazy! He's too brilliant for that!'

Craig looks at me for a moment, and then I know: we have just become bff's. A similar dialogue occurred at the emergence of the Wind-Up Birds in the 'build' section ('Did you name them from Murakami's work?' 'I did! I love Murakami!' 'Me, too!'). This was no longer an interview for an art program--this was a book club between nerdy-comic lovers, a kindred spiritship.

They then dismissed me for a few moments so they could discuss my application, but I hadn't even sat down on the chair in the hall before I was called back in. AND OFFERED A SPOT. I think I may have shrieked like a beauty pageant contestant, but I could be wrong. It got a bit blurry for a moment there.

But lest I get too excited, the next hurdle awaits: will my student visa get approved?? Back to the States in a few short days to find out...and if it doesn't, then we're back to San Francisco and looking for the next best thing!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go curl up with Bill Watterson collection to celebrate...and maybe write him that long overdue love letter...

Richard Curtis wants me.

Okay, so you know the screenwriter who did Love Actually, and Bridget Jones's Diary, and Notting Hill, and Four Weddings and a Funeral, and The Boat That Rocked, and, like, LOADS OF OTHER AWESOME STUFF BECAUSE HE'S THE GREATEST EFFING SCREENWRITER OF ALL TIME? Well, for my birthday (which is Saturday, so you still have time to send me gifts), HE SIGNED ONE OF HIS MOVIES FOR ME! See below for the kickin' cover. And I don't think I have to read much between the lines to know a love letter when I see one. It's pretty obvious we're going to get married and have loads of babies:

p.s. This good fortune befell me courtesy of THE COOLEST WOMAN EVER that I nanny for, who just * happens * to be a close and personal friend of Dick's.

p.p.s. I feel that we're close enough that I can call him Dick now.

'Boats on Water,' or 'My Recent Trip to Greece.'

I was originally going set up an online photo album of the recent shots I took in Greece* and just provide a link to it, but then I realized that I am TERRIBLE at looking at other people's online photo albums, no matter how matter how much I want to see pictures from their vacations to Egypt**, so why should I expect you to go to the effort to look through mine? So instead I will FORCE you to look at them by posting some of the shots right HERE:

The first couple of days there were stormy, which was great for two reasons: one, it made the sky so much more dynamic than a sunny day can ever do, and two, it made me nostalgic for my childhood spent in the heart of tornado alley, Oklahoma. I didn't realize how much I missed the wall-shaking rumbles and room-lighting flashes and the black-and-orange sky of a good, honest springtime tempest until our mountaintop villa started shaking during dinner on our second night. I've got to start planning my vacations back home better. If I don't sprint through hail on the way to a tornado cellar at least once on my next family visit, then I haven't planned properly.

'Boat on water.'

'Men playing cards.'

Seeing these two playing cards in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in a taverna on the water, made me realize that somewhere along the career path, I made a wrong turn.

'Another Boat on Water.'

I know what you're thinking: 'Did you photoshop that boat into the photo?' No. No, I did not. But I DID make it appear using the power of my mind, so I still cheated.

*Sidebar: I recently had the pleasure of spending ten days in Corfu and got back a week ago. It was rad. I am now dog-sitting in Kensington, which I dare say is as much a leap in lifestyle as Greece was. I would post photos from this, too, except I'm spending most of my time at Whole Foods.

**I'm actually lying. I don't at ALL want to see your vacation photos of Egypt. But your wedding album, now THAT would be a treat.

A springtime haiku

A blossom drifted
Landing softly on my arm
And then it was gone.

Snow Day, or Why Mother Effing Russia is WAY Too Close (Geographically Speaking)

So it turns out that there's some freaky-deaky cold front whipping through England from RUSSIA. Yes. MOTHER EFFING RUSSIA. That crazy thought aside, the bitter cold of yesterday--with a wind so sharp it burned the nose and ears--has morphed into snow. All night snow, all day snow, and according to reports, snow tomorrow til forever. It's apparently 'the worst downfall seen in southeast England in 18 years.'

And of course London has completely shut down. All bus lines have been suspended due to the 'dangerous conditions' (I can hear my Wisconsin friend laughing at this) and the tube has ground to a shuddering halt, leaving only a few trains limping around town in a self-pitying fashion, carrying the grisliest of public servants. Because this is a day in which NOBODY is leaving their home and in which EVERYBODY has turned into a pajama-clad telecommuter, doing little more than watching weather reports, experiencing strange bouts of giddiness, and sneaking in the occasional film from the safety of the blankets on the couch in between 'calls' to coworkers in the pretense of discussing the Business of the Day.

I am trying out my new slow cooker today; in six short hours, I will have chicken and dumplings and a glass of grenache-mouvedre to warm the soul. And it is good.

I have several items to discuss today!

One: it rained, like, three days in a row last week, and I was SUPER BUMMED, and thought, 'London is ALWAYS raining,' which led me to realize how one can easily reach that conclusion based on one week alone. But THEN I got Orla Kiely wellingtons at Sunday's sample sale and was so psyched for it to rain again and THEN the SUN came out for TWO DAYS and oh how sad I was and then today it rained again and I've never been so pleased. Thank you, wellies, for making rain lovely and exciting and good.

Two: I can't remember number two. It will no doubt come to me next time I'm walking one of the babies, which is when all of my good ideas come.

Three: I emailed Weetabix my blog tutorial on their product and got the world's funniest email in response. I seriously can't even handle this:

'Dear Sharona

Many thanks for making contact.

Welcome to the wonderful World of Weetabix!

We are delighted to hear you enjoy Weetabix so much and are spreading the word too!

There is no right or wrong way to enjoy Britain's favourite breakfast cereal. Cold milk, hot milk. A little sugar or none (Weetabix already contains around 4.5%, 1.7g in a 2 biscuit serving). Some even take it dry with butter and jam! It all goes to show what a versatile product Weetabix really is.

We hope the attached might inspire you and your friends to try Weetabix a few different ways.

Thanks again for getting in touch.

Kind regards,

x'

It is NOT Day Two.

It didn't rain today. This confirms my theory: the infamous London rain is a myth. 'Watch out for the worst few months of your life,' they all inform, gleeful about their cold, wet wet winters. But so far...it's rained once since December. And before that, MAYBE a half dozen times since October, random short downpours, mid-afternoon or mid-dle of the night. So yes...my suspicions hold fast: there is no such thing as Famous London Always Rain.

Day One is officially renamed 'The Day It Rained in London.' No, wait. The Day It Rained HARD in London. Yes. That is right.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go curl up with a brick of Weetabix. Kisses.

I am a member of the Unsuspecting Public.

I seriously suck at story-telling. I'm not kidding. I do. Like just now, I sat down to begin a story starting with 'Last Thursday' and ending with 'and this is what I saw.' Simple, right? But then, three sentences in, it read like it was written by someone who speaks English as a second language. And not proficiently, like a German, but poorly, like a [I just realized I can't insert anything here without sounding racist. Dammit.] At any rate, I had to give up and delete the entire thing. This happens frequently in my world.

So, to keep the story short and as un-story-like as possible, since that seems to be the only way my higher power will let me do it: last Thursday I saw four hundred 'commuters' break into spontaneous choreographed dancing at Liverpool Street Station. I was on the mezzanine, looking down, and they went through a medley of songs, dancing in complete unison. It. was. fantastic. Absolutely one of the most thrilling things I've ever seen. Due in large part to the fact that it was unprecedented, unexpected, and unexplained.

Later I went online to find out what it was. I knew it would be on youtube within seconds, as every single bystander had stopped to watch (train and bus schedules were thrown out the window that day, as everybody's priorities were usurped by blind fascination) and whipped out their cell phones to record the show. Turns out it was an elaborately produced (and dare I say brilliant?) ad by T-Mobile, something about Life is Sharing or somesuch. They intentionally hid their video cameras while they taped the dancers, as they didn't want anybody to figure out what was going on. They also captured the viewers with their mobiles out, sending the videos to friends. After all, Life is Sharing. Or somesuch.

And this is what I saw. Please click on 'watch in high quality' if your bandwith gives you the luxury.

And this is how they pre-advertised. I should really try to watch more t.v. Without it, I apparently fall under the category of 'Unsuspecting Public.' So true...so true.

Northern England Reveals Its Charms

Jane Austen lived here.*

In her letters, she referred to her estate as 'Hot Toddy Hall.' She did this in an attempt to protect her privacy as well as to offer her correspondents a revealing glimpse into her personal life.**

This was Jane's local church. She rarely set foot inside, as she was usually nursing her hangover from Saturday night's festivities in Hot Toddy Hall.***

This was Jane's local butcher and deli. She loved their duck liver pate and could often be heard on the children's swings after dark, whooping into the wee hours.****

And so concludes my tour of Northern England. Please let me know if you are interested in any more of my tours; there are many neighborhoods in London I would love to walk you through.

*I'm making this up. I really have no idea where Jane Austen lived.
**This is also not true.
***This is probably true.
****'Whooping' is not a metaphor.

And that's how to get a job.

Yesterday, 2:47 p.m.:

Mommy 9: The baby totally shifted and his head is RIGHT ON MY BLADDER. I can barely walk right now.

Me: Really? When is he due?

Mommy 9: December 15th.

Me: That's what YOU think. He's so coming early.

Mommy 9: Don't SAY that.

Me: No, I'm serious. He's on his way. AS WE SPEAK.


Yesterday, 11:32 p.m., voicemail:

"I just had the baby. Can you start tomorrow morning?"


And so began Day 1!