No sassy little girls to deceive me

It is 6:59am, and I am just getting back to the house after leaving at 9:30pm the previous evening.

I also went to a strip club. But it was sadly rather disappointing. Though it was sort of funny to realize that the establishment is right down the street from where I lived the first time I studied in London. Fancy that--such a well kept "Secret," as the place's name would attest.

More later. I should probably sleep, even though it's a legitimate hour to start the day, let alone finish it.

Easy Come Easy Go...AWESOME FLAT!

This morning I cashed a hefty sum in travelers checks, and got two envelopes full of British currency.

After a tasty vegetarian English Breakfast and some tea at a small cafe, I met Rebecca and her mother and the three of us headed to Wood Green to FINALIZE OUR TENANCY AGREEMENT!

Big moment guys. And how do you know it was a big moment?

Because there was a lot of money involved.

And I didn't get to keep it.

That's right, Rebecca and I had to hand over upwards of three £Gs (grands, not gangstas). It was a bit painful, I felt slightly light headed. But I did appreciate my purse zipping closed with ease once the voluptuous envelopes had been deflated.

So, friends, I have a flat...it is actually official now--signed in three copies and backed by the strongest guarantor there is:

cash.

I was born to live in London and eat herbs

Long ago in a lost time and place, the youngest daughter of a Jewish family found herself reading the Four Questions as Passover Seder. As she exercised her newfound skill of reading, she proudly orated for the entirety of the house's congregation the first and then the second question...

"Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only bitter herbs?"

Laughter and sniggers peeled forth from the critical congregation as family and friends alike found themselves incapable at stifling their amusement at the small child's mispronunciation of the silent "h" in herbs.

Well, no more.

For that little girl has grown up into an albeit little but sassy young woman who finds herself in another country, where she is not mocked for her mistake! No no, she is PRAISED! Nay, HAILED AND BESTOWED WITH VARIOUS HONORS AND TITLES AND OTHER MEMORABILIA OF ADMIRATION!!! for her pronunciation of "herbs."

For indeed, friends, the British, a much older and wiser culture than the Americans, know how to pronounce their words. They pronounce the h in herbs, as one may notice in any Herbal Essences commercial or when someone is telling you their post code, which happens to have an h in it, at which point they'll say "haych"--like saying "hay" with ch on the end.

I'll admit, at first I was quite confused--what is the haych? What letter is this that I have up until now been completely ignorant of?

Ah, I see. It is the CORRECT way of saying h and herbs!

So to all you rebels across the pond, please silence your twatish nonsense and learn to pronounce things properly. Herb wants his herbs, and he wants his name and his greens pronounced correctly. And so do I.

----

Oh, and our offer on the flat was accepted! We finalize the paperwork and the balance tomorrow (Tuesday)!

Amusing Odds and Ends

After putting down the deposit, I was back in Finsbury Park by early afternoon, both elated and exhausted--we had accomplished something! My birthday had found us a great flat, and the day after had found us each out 150 quid for the deposit. Not bad at all!

I decided I was taking the rest of the day off. So I grabbed the quilt made by my Patron, made some tea and got a bowl of grapes, and I settled into the couch to watch Twilight.

Shut up.

I decided I had nothing to lose, and there wasn't anything else I wanted to watch, so I'd give it a try. I can say now that I have a real reason to dislike Twilight other than just knowing it was crap--because now I've watched it. I'll admit, though, the first one was pretty amusing in a it's-just-so-bad-it's-good way. Midway through, one of mine hosts joined me and we watched/mocked it together. Her boyfriend then arrived and he joined is as well as we watched the second one--which honestly just didn't make sense half the time. But I guess the main audience of these films is too busy drooling over the boys to notice that what's happening in front of them is completely inexplicable.

So yeah. In a new country, using new money, learning the ins and outs of the renting market, and watching Twilight. It's just been one week full of new experiences.

Which brings me to another.

Wasting time on Stroud Green Rd during my viewings, I stopped in at a cheapo store to see what sort of fun gadgets they had. In addition to mugs and kitchenware, bedding and mats, and some various school supplies, there was also a mouse pad with a rather disturbing supposedly sexy woman on it. And the squishy bump that you rest your wrist on was made up her boobs--so there was a nice little dip in the middle to rest in.. But you could have your choice of the left or the right boob in case you needed a bit more cushioning.

Then I got to the toy section. In addition to packaged of toy animals that all seemed to be in fornicating positions, there was black furry luv cuffs between toy cars and puzzles. And then the dolls. There were plastic dolls on sale, and for this particular brand there was a white doll and a black doll. The label on the white doll's packaging said "Gemma." Ah, ok, so that's the brand, ie, the name of the doll. Little Gemma! How adorable.

The black doll's name? "My friend."

Wow. In the immortal words of Rebecca, I don't think we even need to discuss this.

---

What other interesting things are there? Oh, the word twat. Yes, very offensive to us Americans, no?

Not here in Britain! I mean, sure, it's a naughty word, but it's thrown around quite liberally. But what makes it so much more amusing is the pronunciation. We say twat, rhyming with "swat." Mine hosts and the rest of the English, as far as I know, say twat, rhyming with cat.

Just say it yourself a few times, with a British accent, perhaps in the context of "What a complete and utter twat!" and you'll see why it's so amusing.

----

Earlier this week there was also a great culture clash in the realm of shrimp chips versus prawn crackers (which is still utterly amusing).

Thrift stores and consignment shops versus charity shops.

It took a few minutes to get on the same wavelength. As I tried to explain myself, Marianne finally leaned forward and, very slowly and loudly, asked me

"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?"

Clearly, we were speaking different languages. At first mine hosts thought that by thrift stores I meant places like Costco, so I had to explain that thrift stores are used clothing and things sold for cheap, oftentimes connected to some sort of philanthropic initiative. Ah, a charity shop!

Contact!

But what was this consignment shop business? The idea was unheard of. Getting money for your used clothing? Sharing the profits with the shop?

Marianne was intrigued. Charity is good and all, but if you can make a few quid out of it, why not?

Another triumph for the American pursuit of capitalist gain!

----

I won't go into great detail, here, but I've really been enjoying British tv. During the day I often watch Top Gear, the greatest car show ever. But in the evening I've watched some programs with the girls, and am thoroughly amazed. Honestly, I can't make an accurate comparison because I don't watch reality tv in the US. But I think it's automatically more amusing over here because there are British people involved.

Some of the programs I've watched:

The X Factor--basically the same as American Idol, but in the UK. They let some truly horrid people pass through. And it's really addicting.

Don't Tell the Bride--a couple gets 12000 quid to plan their wedding...but on the condition that the groom plans everything without telling the bride anything. Apparently what usually happens is the guy is more or less disorganized, spends a ton of money on the stag party and other stuff, and then leaves his bridge without a hair stylist and without a hen party. Also, the men usually pick exactly what the bride said she didn't want when the camera was on her earlier, but it all generally turns out alright in the end--she's just so happy to be getting married that it doesn't really matter.

Young, Dumb, and Living Off Mum--Wow. Basically, a bunch of "kids" (early 20s and thereabouts) who have no life skills are kicked out of the house and live together, having to learn how to do laundry, cook, get jobs, etc. There are work challenges, and then eliminations based on who isn't making progress. Whoever wins gets a trip around the world. As amusing as it is, though, the show is desperately flawed. The kids who need the help the most and aren't learning are kicked out and sent back home to "Mum," while rather than making a well-balanced life the goal, instead it's a trip around the world. So...after finally learning more or less how to do shit, all of a sudden they don't have to do anything anymore! And can go off gallivanting around the world for free. Ironic?

---

Oh, and it's true--often times they don't get what you mean when you say bathroom or restroom. Rebecca asked if she could use the bathroom/restroom in the Muswell Hill flat, and the tenant was thoroughly confused until I jumped in and said "loo." It just feels a bit awkward saying words like that in anything but an English accent, though.

The Great Flat Hunt Concludes

WE HAVE PUT A DEPOSIT DOWN ON A FLAT!

It's all very exciting. So exciting that it took a great deal of time to recover from the shock, thus explaining why this post is so late.

After searching for a week, fate seemed to smile upon Rebecca and me. It was time for a change--I had seen too many hovels and talked to too many agents. Something had to give, to set the natural balance straight.

Wednesday was a particularly dark day. I spent the morning doing the usual internet searches and desperate calls to old and new agencies, seeing what they had available. I then set up an appointment and, after having some lunch, set out. I took a bus instead of taking the tube because Mine Host pointed out that it would be less aggravating and cheaper. Ironically, though, I needed to top up my Oyster card but forgot to do it, so I had to buy a cash ticket at the bus stop, which was 2 quid instead of the 1.20 with the oyster. So that sucked. Also, I had gotten directions to the agency via the station, not the bus stop. I was running late and called multiple times trying to let the agent know, but he was not answering his phone. Frazzled, I got off the bus and was completely disoriented. I couldn't find anyone trustworthy to ask, or maybe I was just too flustered. In any case, I called a few more times (I definitely called more than 5 times), and the agent didn't answer. Realizing I was going to be late for my second appointment, I hopped back on the bus, more than aggravated.

When I called the agent with whom I had the second appointment, he, to my great joy, answered. He also arranged to pick me up from a bus stop so I didn't waste more time on the bus than necessary. He really was a fine fellow, very nice. We chatted about this and that, and about his daughter receiving her A Level results the following morning. I saw a flat that wasn't quite as bad as I had seen before, but I wasn't sure. It was worth considering.

When I got home, though, I was exhausted and pretty low. Not only had the flat hunt not greatly improved, but it was worsened by a rather harsh slap on the face from Reality. While waiting at the bus stop for the second agent to pick me up, I saw a woman and her young daughter. The woman was clearly distraught. She was on the phone, crying. As she walked by once or twice I heard her shaking voice crack as she explained to the person on the phone that she was only receiving 20 quid a week for child support, and asking desperately "What can you do with 20 quid a week?! Nothing!" I sat and listened and felt everything inside me sink a little lower. There wasn't really anything I could do. When she had gone I felt even worse, wondering if I should have offered her some money, or at least bus fare somewhere. A few days earlier a man with a small dog asked me if I could spare some change, offering to make me a wire flower in exchange. Caught off guard, I said I didn't have any change--which wasn't true. I immediately regretted it, and even tried to catch up with the fellow after getting some change out (I didn't want him to see how much I had, I was too ashamed). I missed him, though. It's hard to say no to people in general, but he offered to essentially earn my charity, and I turned him down. I was really upset about it for a while, and it still bothers me sometimes.

So yeah, things got pretty bleak for a while. But Friday...there was something special about Friday, I could just feel it. People began reminding me on Thursday, 19 August, that Friday would be different. Why? Oh yeah, it would be 20 August--you know, my birthday.

Totally forgot that.

Thursday night still found me busy with the flat hunt. That afternoon/early evening, I had 3 viewings on Stroud Green Road at above-retail flats. The first one had a dryer running, and I noticed that the large hose that usually goes from the dryer to outside was lying on the floor, pumping hot air exhaust into the room. I was a little unnerved. Then I heard the asking price: 300 pounds. WOW. Um, that's ridiculous for a crummy city flat above a store. Then I found myself with an hour to waste before my second viewing just a few doors down. I walked around a beautiful residential neighborhood across the street, wandering through the rows and rows of Victorian houses. I wish I had my camera, it was lovely. Lovely, actually, doesn't even describe it. It was quaint, it was perfect--cue settling down hormones now. After that got a bit awkward, though, since I was just this rando standing around in these peoples neighborhoods, I went back to the main road and went into a little clothing store. I chatted with the man running it, mentioning I was looking for flats.

"Oh, you saw no. 51? That's a good building. Oh, you didn't like it?"

"No, not really, but mostly it's out of my price range."

"Really...? What are they asking for it?"

"300 per week..that's just too much for me right now."

*laughs* "It's not 300! Who told you that?! The agent?"

So yeah...the shop owner knew the landlord for the building with the flat I had seen earlier. He called the landlord then and there, chatted about one thing or another, then asked if the landlord knew the estate agent was telling tenants the flat was going for 300pw. After hanging up, the man laughed and said the landlord verified that, indeed, the flat was not going for 300pw. The real asking price was 250pw. So I wonder who gets those 50 odd pounds...

Yeah. Scum bag. I'm glad I was cheeky with the agent and told him to dress better next time I saw him (he was exercising Casual Thursday).

Then I saw the next two flats. The ground floor one was a cave. Horrible. The top floor one was not bad, comparably. It was airy and bright, had a patio and a fire escape. But it was on a busy street and sparsely furnished--we'd really have to fill it out. It was an option, though. And luckily, Rebecca was to show up the next day!

My birthday!

I had arranged some appointments later in the day for us to go to once Rebecca and her mother had arrived and gotten settled at the hotel. Major props to the flatmate for pushing through any jetlag and the strains of travel to hit the ground running and LOOK FOR A FLAT! She met me in Finsbury Park and we both got on our computers. I taught her the ways of The Great Flat Hunt. IE, you sit on your but and sift through online ads, clicking "show interest" buttons and taking down numbers to call. Then you call and hear that the place you called about is already gone, ask if there is anything else similar, hear that there isn't, and finish the call by leaving your details and asking them to call you if anything comes up. Then, we checked a new site--she had sent it to me in an email the day before, but I hadn't had a chance to look at it.

Then we found it.

Well, two places, actually. One in Muswell Hill and another somewhere else that doesn't matter. As Rebecca read me the agency's number so I could call about the Muswell Hill flat, my heart didn't lift. It didn't have much inspiration--after all, how many calls had I made about good looking flats that had already been let? Many. So I wasn't getting my hopes up. Then, I heard it.

"Yes, it's still available, would you like to arrange a viewing?"

OF COURSE I WANT TO ARRANGE A VIEWING, YOU IGNORANT TWAT!

I didn't say that. But I definitely got a bit flustered and stumbled over the yes yes quite how about that same evening?

Done deal. We were meeting David at the flat.

Then we set up an appointment for another place the next day, Saturday, at 11:30. Whatever.

Took the bus over to Muswell Hill, and more or less found where we were going. Gorgeous. Rows and rows of Victorian houses. It was a bit of a steep hill, but so worth it, because as you reached the top, you could look back and see an amazing view of Victorians and the city beyond. We were early and stood outside, taking in the neighborhood. David showed up and we went in. First thing we were confronted with? A green spiral staircase leading up to the flat's entrance.

Need I say more?

Of course not. We were there for over an hour looking around and chatting with the current tenant and the agent. We got a rave review of the landlord from both and took in the awesomeness of a huge living room lounge and two unequally sized but both very cool bedrooms. The kitchen and bathroom were a bit drab...but who the hell cares. You can shower with your eyes closed, and you can look at the yummy things you're cooking instead of the boring floor.

We were pretty much ready to put a deposit down then and there--Rebecca even told me she had the cash on hand, as did I. However, we wanted to make sure this really was the right choice. Was it close enough to the tube? Was there fun stuff to do nearby as well as further out? So we made plans to call David later that evening. We took a walk to the Highgate tube station to figure out how long it took--a bit of a long walk, 15 minutes--but it felt like good exercise! Plus, we could catch a bus when lazy. And we were on the perfect tube line to plop us down right near school.

But we did have that appointment the following morning at 11:30...we should be thorough, right? especially since the other place was a lot cheaper.

So we made plans to meet David at 12:45 to make an offer--that way, we could see the other place and either go running and screaming to be taken in and saved from a hovel by David, or we could say thanks but no thanks.

Next morning, we met up at the tube and more or less got to the flat we were viewing.

The viewing happened.

(silence)

"So...first impressions?..."

"I don't think we even need to discuss this."

(silence)

So to David we went and handed him 150 quid each while sipping on some black tea with milk--no sugar.

The Great Flat Hunt, Day 2

I have been to Hell, friends...and it is somewhere in a ground floor flat on Blackstock Road in London.

I don't think I can do today's experiences justice, I'm just so tired...exhausted...emotionally drained. A cardboard box is looking fantastic right now, for real. But, that behind said...it's still a good experience. It's horrible and exciting to launch into this, talk to agents, see them blatantly trying to flirt me into a decision, as well as not knowing whether they are being honest or straightforward.

I was asked if I participated in any girls-gone-wild naked escapades.

And I couldn't get in touch with my would-be salsa partner.

I saw 6 places today, after spending the better part of the morning pouring over internet ads and calling agents.

5 places were pretty depressing...student hovels, ex-council places (formerly run by the local gov, somewhat undesirable), odd smells, odd stains...etc.

Just before 6 I stopped off at one more place and was taken to a quaint residential neighborhood, Digsby Crescent. It was lovely, and the flat was a split level ground floor bit in a period house. It wasn't gorgeous, but the architecture was great, there was a bit of green in the back, the bedrooms were a good size, and the living room was spectacular with a 3-piece bay window looking out into the neighborhood. But it was out of our price-range. Even negotiating it down 30 pounds and extending the lease was pushing it, especially since we don't want to get stuck in a lease that was too long. What ensued for the next 2 hours was a manic rush from the flat back to the agency and then back to the house I'm staying to gather information, call the US multiple times, and pour over the details of the deal to see if making an offer was a wise decision. At first it seemed like it was, but then...it was just a bit expensive. And the bathroom was a bit dodgy. And it's big, so heating could get tough since we can't let ourselves freeze...

Terror, panic, blood pressure all on the rise. Do I make an offer, do I not? As the clock was ticking...or rather, once it had stopped ticking but I was making it tick myself (calling after closing time and whatnot), I backed away. I said I'd call in the morning. I almost felt sure this was our place, but it's expensive. It's doable, but expensive. My stomach was still churning but I came into the kitchen to have a medicinal glass of wine and the girls who were home all raised their eyebrows when I told them the situation--price, location, etc. They were optimistic that I could find something nice and a good bit cheaper. They were also positive about the amount of time I had to find said nice and good bit cheaper place.

So...what started out as a frustrating day on the phone quickly turned into a mad dash through a fair part of North East London's less attractive housing options which led to a climax that crumbled from the seismic waves of anxiety tempered with some critical thinking and positive reinforcement.

Tomorrow: hanging out on the couch while going through a few thousand ads online. Perhaps I'll pop in a movie or something.

Michael McIntyre may not be entirely correct...

Michael McIntyre has said that there is nothing more tense in life than using Scottish money in England.

Perhaps that's true if you're British. But if you're American and you find yourself in London, using Scottish money is not really on your radar, especially as you brace yourself, pushing yourself deep into your seat as you are driven around the wrong side of tiny streets by a driver on the wrong side of the car.

They shift with their left hand, for goodness' sake! I can't tell if it's just me being all turned around or if the traffic patterns are actually that much more erratic and odd, weird windy bits in the middle as you cross from one area to another. But yes, today I was driven around twice by British people in their British cars on their British roads. It wasn't particularly scary, it was just...terribly odd. Like reaching for the door handle and missing it because someone has changed it to a knob and you're not quite sure how to get through the door--you understand the mechanics of both a door handle and a knob, and yet once you are forced to switch from one to the other, it just feels very strange. Like wearing underwear that is slightly too small, or something.

Anyway, this all ties in to the Great Flat Search, Day 1. I started off the morning with a letting agency right down the road, saw a smelly little flat, nothing special. I think I can do better. Then I walked down the length of Upper Street in Islington and stopped in, or at least looked at, every letting agency. I returned to one of the agencies for an appointment where I saw one flat, which was very nice...a bit too nice. Everything had been redone! Lovely..but...that means any scratch will be that much more obvious. And white carpets...yikes. No shoes or spilling or anything. Also no furniture, but that could be negotiated, as could the price. I'll call in the morning and see what I can get from the agent, but if it's not right, it's not right. There are cheaper places that look a bit tougher for the wear and tear of daily life, and don't have odd showers that aren't properly blocked off and share the same floor with the rest of the bathroom...

Perhaps, though, if I went salsa dancing with the agent, he'd get me a better price and some nice furniture? I had to tell him that I really was set on finding a place to live before worrying about having fun on the weekend, though. He agreed that that was a worthy first priority, as he turned right from the left-hand lane, perfectly legally.

I have since spent the rest of the afternoon and evening watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding (it was in the DVD player and I couldn't figure out how to get to the regular tv...) and trying to find places online. I've found some..well..thousands, actually. It's not the most manageable system, but I'll make some sort of progress!

One other little bit: a WOW moment. Watching tv (one of the girls left it on), a commercial for finding suppliers for whatever you want to manufacture came on. A white lady in a suit said she needed this product, then an Asian man said he made it. A white man said he needed a product, sweatshirts, I think. An Asian woman followed, saying in a thick accent whilst standing in front of rows of other women sewing "I produced it," or something. Yes, I nearly choked on my pretzel, too. It wasn't until the very end that the manufacturer was some sort of nondescript ethnic man--before that, they were all Asian. So many things that could be said about that, and I'm just so dumbfounded that I can't even think of wear to begin. In one 30 second segment, some company managed to promote cheap sweatshop labor, outsourcing, AND the inspiration of producing a product and being a successful business person.

At least they're being honest about their intentions...?