What Did We Fight For?

About a month ago, on a lazy Saturday, my husband and I went to a flat viewing in a part of London that we were unfamiliar with. It was a new build along the canal, with gorgeous views, but the area around the tube station seemed a bit sketch. Even though it was well on its way to full "gentrification," what with all the bankers - like my husband -  moving in to the "Five Star Luxury" buildings popping up like rabbits, we weren't quite sure what to make of the neighbourhood as a whole.

We wandered around the high street, eventually coming to a  cafe with almond milk lattes and super seed salads - a sure sign of growing gentrification. So we stopped for - what else? - an almond milk latte and a super seed salad (me), and a "sweet treat" (him).

Him, as our order came: "I can't eat that green shit. What are you, a rabbit? That's not human food."

Taking a seat on the outside terrace, I proposed that the best way to get the feel of an area is to talk to the people who actually live there. I zeroed in on two women, yammering away at warp speed as women typically do over a Saturday brunch.

I ended up deep in conversation with one of the women, from New York, in London to visit her friend. She is a writer, a typical seventies feminist, thoughtful. At one point she looked at me with what looked like desperation in her eyes. "Is this what we fought for? Did we fight for women to have it all, and then to feel immensely guilty when they can't do it all, and burn out in the process? Women are exhausted and depleted. So guilt ridden. If they are working, they want to be with their children. If they are with their children, they are worrying about their work emails. When they are at business dinners, they wish they could be on a date with their husbands. There is not enough time for all of it. What did we do?"

I often wonder the same thing.

In the process of ensuring that women can have the same opportunities as men do, something major seems to have happened. Those roles traditionally inhabited by women have become utterly devalued, an addendum to the "real" work of the world.

I don't really think anyone would disagree that if a woman wants to be a professor, or an engineer, or a doctor, or whatever else her interests and gifts lead her to, she should be able to go after it. But the fact that the option is there, that the freedom of choice is available to her, seems to have warped into a "must."

One of my dear friends, contemplating the birth of her first baby looked at me with embarrassment one day. "I just want to stay home with her. When she is born, I want to quit my job. I want to be there when she takes her first step and starts talking. I don't want anyone else to change her diapers."

But the problem?

"That's not enough. I would be betraying everything our feminist foremothers fought for, if I did that. I can't just stay home. How will people look at me?"

Another friend, having just had her second child and preparing to go back to work,  told me that it almost didn't make sense to go back to work. "I want the best care for my children. And the best care is expensive. Once we pay for that, and for the cleaning lady whom we need because no one is ever at home to clean, and the meals we order in because no one has the time and energy to cook, my salary is almost completely eaten up."

The problem?

"If I stayed home, people would think I was making a dumb choice. They would think I was wasting my education and my abilities."

A friend stared at me over Skype one day. Her two toddlers were wreaking chaos in the background. Laundry was spilling off her table. She hadn't had time to shower yet, and her husband was on his way home from work. "I'm not doing enough. I should probably start applying for jobs."

Why?

"Because what do I tell people? That I take care of my kids and make meals and try to keep the house clean?"

Dark circles ringed her eyes. "I need to be doing more." But then, "What do I do with the kids? They are so little. I don't want to put them in day-care and miss their growing up years."

What is this "more"? Why "must" you? 

Just because a woman can do everything a man can do - or nearly - doesn't mean she must in order to retain her dignity and worth. If she wants to inhabit that more "traditional" role in her family, then why is she made to feel guilty for wanting that? When did career success become the only measure of one's worth? 

When did it become ok for women to feel guilty for wanting to be with their own children? 

The fight for a woman's ability to chart her own course, have her own money, enter any career of her choosing, leave abusive men without being vilified - this was a worthy and great fight. But it seems to have gone off course somehow, and ended up breeding the assumption that child-rearing, home-making, care-taking are somehow less worthy, less important than going to an office everyday.

I don't think this was meant to happen, and it is a tragic disservice to women that it has.

The Way We Live, Part Two

Last week I wrote about one of the choices my Spanish half and I made with regard to living our lives together.

An interesting side effect of this and something which, when I became aware of it, I intentionally cultivated, is that when you have a clean home, the energy to make it beautiful, and the time to cook well, you fill a hole in the lives of many people.

London is a hard city to live in. It is expensive, competitive, extremely large and busy, and most people just pass through and don't settle here. It is a place to gain experience, make your fortune, or invest your money. It is not really a place conducive to building a family life.

It is ironic that precisely those overworked, stressed out, exhausted people who have no one to rely on or to ask for help, who are far from their families, and perhaps longing for some kind of connection and support, are most in need of some of those key elements that family life can provide, and generally have no access to it.

And so, if they have money they might go to the spa to relax, go out to eat for most of their meals, and talk to a therapist or coach so that someone will listen to them.

All of these things - relaxation, food, a listening ear -  are typically available in a home. But there are no homes.

When I found myself in possession of a house, with a natural inclination to make it pretty - because I like pretty things; to have it clean - because I can't deal with dirt; tidy - because I hate clutter; full of  a fairly constant supply of healthy, yummy food - because what you eat is really important, I suddenly also found myself with people on my doorstep. Or, to be more accurate, buzzing into my flat.

Because I've chosen to live life the way I do, I've usually had the time to do a morning de-clutter and tidy, so the flat is more often than not a pleasant place to hang out in.  If it is afternoon when the buzzer rings there are probably some cookies to have with tea, because my husband has a sweet tooth and I make him healthy, sugar-free cookies. I have usually already planned dinner and three is pretty much the same is two, and three pretty much the same as four, so if you want to stay it's no real trouble.

And it should be that way; I have chosen to live my life to take the time to make it that way.

What I have realized is that this luxury - for it is one, in this day and age - is not just for my husband and me. It spreads itself into the lives of others, as it should, and it can be a real gift. For the lonely, or the stressed, or the exhausted, sometimes there is nothing like sitting on a couch doing nothing, while someone else potters around making you something to eat, listening to what you have to say.

I realize that I, perhaps, have opened myself up criticism of all sorts, from various different camps. But I am not writing this to be prescriptive - not everyone would enjoy this type of life, or even be good at it. And that is absolutely fine.

Ultimately, I write this as encouragement. There are many women who, either by choice or necessity are in their homes, and struggling with that fact for many reasons.  And I am not saying that you have to stay there - if there is something you feel really called to do, do it! We are lucky enough to have all options open to us.

But, I would guess, that if you reframe how you look at what you do within your home, you might be surprised at the energy and resources you must expend to do it well. You might even begin to be impressed with yourself. It takes time and talent to create a welcoming environment. It takes thought and research to plan and cook nutritious meals. It requires patience and understanding to listen to those who need an ear.

There is a reason why the family is the building block of society. It is the place where new members are created for the future. But it is also the place from which people can go, having been nourished, encouraged, perhaps even a bit renewed, to tackle the world and do their best in it.

So, to those of you in the home, you might just be doing rather important, crucial work. In your generosity, you might be providing something that someone desperately needs and can't get anywhere else.

Cultural Differences

I never tire of observing the cultural differences between Canada and the UK. Between Canada and Spain. Between the UK and Spain.

I am caught in a weird world where I have to balance and be aware of the differences between the place I was raised, and the place I live; between the place I live, as well as the place I was raised, and the customs of my husband and in-laws.

It never gets boring.

I finally realized the other day, why my husband has always believed, since he first met him, that my brother kind of didn't like him.

Our friend - from California - had mentioned in passing the rather barbaric practice that North American men have, of hitting or teasing each other if they like each other.

My Spanish husband observed that he really didn't understand such behaviour.

The penny dropped. I asked him if this was the reason he thought my brother kind of dislikes him.

"Well, yeah. He always punches my arm and says insulting things about Spain and being a Banker."

I couldn't stop laughing.

In Spain, if they are friends - and, probably, even if they are not -  Spanish men are inclined to pat each other on the back, even give each other a hug, and verbalize quite a bit of encouragement. The closest similarity I can draw is that they are like North American women.

I don't say that insultingly or disparagingly. It's just a fact - Spanish men tend to be more verbal and outwardly affectionate than North American men, traits which tend to appear more in North American women.

I had to explain to my poor, befuddled Spaniard that if my brother didn't like him, he would probably ignore him completely, and if he had to pay attention to him, be excruciatingly polite. Violence and insults are signs of affection from the North American male.

"So, I just have to insult him next time I see him and he will know I like him?"

"Yep."

So, I should stop hugging him when I see him?"

"He'd probably feel more comfortable if you punched him in the gut."

The Spaniard stared into space for a moment. "How strange."

The Way We Live, Part One

I spent the entire day today flat hunting. I suppose anything to do with house buying, renting, or moving is exhausting, so today was no exception. There is the added frustration of this being an extremely fast moving, competitive market. So you might see something you love in the morning, only to have it sold out from under you in the evening.

My husband hates flat hunting with an almost obsessive passion, so I have been commissioned to do the leg work, and only present him with the absolute cream of the crop. Which suites me because, tiring as it is, I love anything to do with houses.

As I was zooming around today, meeting one agent after an other, I was grateful that I was in fact able to do such a thing. I wasn't viewing flats after an exhausting, full day of work, or on the weekend and interrupting our down time. It was during the day, and I had the whole of it at my disposal to bop from place to place.

I only work part time - a maximum of about twenty hours a week - and this is, to be honest, only because I enjoy it, and I want to keep building up my skills and challenging myself.

This was a very conscious choice that we made together, as a couple. I was offered a full time job in the summer, and another offer seems just around the corner. And while each offer is tempting, I really love the choice we have made.

My husband has a stressful, very busy job. He loves it and is very good at it, but it asks a lot of him. He travels almost bi-weekly for a day or two or three at a time, and goes through seasons of needing to go to networking events in the evenings.

And so, if I know he is going to be out in the evening or is going to be away for a few days, I will try to meet him for lunch near his office. Occasionally, if I don't have a work or volunteer commitment, I will join him on a work trip. I have the flexibility to do these things - purposefully - and we need it this way so that we can actually spend quality time together.

I try to take care of anything extraneous going on in our lives so that the weekends are purely for relaxation and seeing friends, and not spent rushing around doing errands that couldn't get done during the work-week.

When he gets home dinner is prepared, he can escape his suit, and then we can eat and chat about the day and maybe watch a show together. If we have dry-cleaning to be dropped off, we don't have to worry about WHEN that is going to happen, or about trying to get there before closing, because I will take care of it during opening hours. The fridge is always stocked with fresh vegetables from the market, the table always has a bowl of fruit,  there are always some cookies in a jar for his sweet-tooth and for anyone who stops by for tea, and generally things are in their places, easy to be found when they are needed.

I can hear wails starting about how our feminist foremothers fought so that I wouldn't have to tend to my home. And so they did. But the key there is the "have;" it is perhaps more accurate to say that they fought so I could actively choose to live my life this way, and not have it as my only option.

Think of it like this: you get married in order to build a home together. Why not make it as pleasant as possible? If you are not tending to that life within your home, and working to make it a place where you actually want to live, then why did you get married? What is wrong with a practical division of labour, so that your lives together are actually enjoyable, instead of a frantic blur?

I think of the alternative. We both rush out of the house in the morning, and then back into it in the evening. The bed is probably unmade, possibly with a wet towel dampening up the mattress; there might be half drunk coffee on the counter and dirty dishes piled in the sink. We might have to put a load of laundry on, or maybe hang the laundry that was left moulding in the washing machine all day. We would have to figure out who is going to make dinner -  that is, if there are even any groceries available with which to make it. It might be about nine o'clock by this time, and do we really want to head out to the grocery store? And so we order food in, regretfully, knowing that we really should be eating a bit better, but with no energy or time to make it happen.

If there is no one whose job it is to take care of those things, then everything is wedged in between working hours. The reality, as much as we act as if houses and meals take care of themselves, is that in order for the home to function well, a series of little jobs must be taken care of. And this is work. And someone has to do it. If there is no one taking care of these jobs during the working day, you must do them out of work hours. But I suppose that is what evenings and weekends are for.

No wonder the divorce rate is so high; instead of spending focused time together, one person is at the grocery store, and the other is changing the sheets because - EWW - when were they changed last?

----

The other day, as he was getting ready for bed, apropos of nothing really, my husband said he was really glad we had organized our lives as we have. He has just changed jobs, and it has been a stressful transition. He insists that the reason he survived it with energy to spare is because I make him eat vegetables and lots of protein - a far cry from his bachelor habit of opening a can of whatever was on his shelf and heating it in the microwave.

And so he said the sweetest thing - that it is only because I am behind the scenes supporting him and taking care of everything else, that he is able to do as well he does; that he sees his work life as a genuine team effort, with me making sure is always able to be in control of the ball and score.

The way we live is a genuine team effort geared towards building an enjoyable home life and a united relationship. And interestingly, that has rather far reaching effects.

But that is a post for another time.

Bilbao and Enjoyment

Something that drew me to my husband is his ability to "Enjoy," as he says. In fact, that is one of his most frequent words to me, one of his most constant reminders. If it is a moment to enjoy, just live it with full concentration until it is over. Enter into it with all your energy and forget about everything else.

You need this time of enjoyment to have the energy for the "everything else" of life.

If it is a sunny day this means lunch on a terrace, with dessert and then a coffee added to extend his time, so that he can properly enjoy the sun and return to work refreshed. One of his frequent rants against anglo-saxon culture is its tendency to sit in front of a computer at work, eating a sandwich and a bag of crisps for lunch. "That is inhuman, and I am sure it is bad for the mind and terrible for the digestion."

I remember one of the first times I had Sunday lunch with his family. They started gathering around 2PM to snack on olives and almonds. 3PM brought the entrance of lunch, and at 5 we were still sitting around the table.

I was getting ancy around 2:30, so by 5:00 I was about to spontaneously combust. What are we DOING? Why are we sitting here? Don't we have things to DO? I don't understand this.

But, just enjoy. Enjoy sitting with nothing to do, talking about whatever comes up, laughing at ridiculous things. The work week is coming, so prolong the enjoyment as long as possible.

This past weekend we were in Bilbao for two days. What a beautiful city.

Link

 It houses the Guggenheim Museum,

Link

It is a city of incredible bridges,

Link

Link

And it even has a giant dog, made out of flowers,

Link

Link

We were there for a reunion of Marcos' old classmates to celebrate fifteen years since they graduated from their MBA program. These people studied together for two years, have kept in contact for the past fifteen, and their sheer excitement at spending time together was just lovely to see.

We began to convene at about 2:00, outside a bar in a beautiful square in Bilbao. We had some wine, chatted for about an hour, and then meandered five minutes down the road to the restaurant. Lunch started at three, was seven courses, and ended at 6:30. By now accustomed to the Spanish weekend lunch, this didn't phase me, but I was absolutely ready to get going and "do things." 

Namely, go to Massimo Dutti and buy the leather jacket that has stolen my heart.

Link

....And perhaps go for a brisk walk to feel better about the monumental lunch I had just consumed. 

But no.

The next stop was a cocktail bar about a five minute walk away from the restaurant. We settled in there for gin and tonics. By eight PM, things seemed to be wrapping up, we started gathering our things, and I started to plot the quickest way to the shops, only to be pulled up short by another stop at a bar about a ten minute walk away from the previous one. Another round of drinks.

Ten P.M. rolled around. Surely people had to get home, have dinner, see their kids. 

But no. The kids were with the grandparents. There were still many things to enjoy.

And so, yet another bar, this time to eat some Pintxos, the Basque version of Tapas, and drink some more wine...

By this time I had no idea what was happening, or when it would end, but I knew that to fight against it was useless.

The evening finally ended, for me, at an 80's dance bar, aptly named "Bowie," which was about the size of a hallway, and so crammed with people that at one point a woman's bum was so firmly wedged against my stomach, I couldn't quite breath properly. 

Everyone in our group that night was at least a decade older than I, they all have between two and five children, and they all work stressful jobs in finance. I hit the wall first. By 1AM, having drunk for 11 hours straight I needed my bed.

Everyone else was still dancing strong when Marcos and I stumbled outside, expelled from the overstuffed bar like a cannon ball from a cannon. We walked about a block down the street, and I decided I couldn't move anymore. I just couldn't. We hailed a cab for the three minute drive to our hotel, and Marcos had to explain to the concerned driver as I sprawled out in the back seat occasionally emitting weak moans, that I was "muy cansada," having been defeated by his middle aged friends. As quickly as I could, I oozed into bed.

And this is what the long Spanish Sunday is for. After a day like that, there really is nothing else to be done, except to sit in the sun, in a square in the Old Town, drinking (more) wine, eating (more) pintxos, and enjoying the freedom to do nothing before the work week starts again.

Link

And, frankly, it is remarkable how ready one becomes for the daily grind of the workaday week, when you have taken the time for enjoyment. 

It is a lesson I am still learning, that dedication to enjoyment is just as important as dedication to the work and serious tasks of one's life. But it is a worthy one, and a rather fun one.

The Inconvenience of Others.

I got married relatively late, compared to those of my friends who got married directly out of, or during, university. And so, I got used to hearing gushing stories of married life, and amazing husbands.

Quite quickly, though, the dreamy eyed bliss with which they spoke of their new state turned into frustration over things like dirty socks - which seemed to pop up everywhere; or boxers - which never seemed to be actually IN the laundry basket; or wet towels on clean beds; or hair -- "Why must they be so hairy?!" -  littering the bottom of the tub.

I would nod in sympathy, agreeing that it must be extremely frustrating and occasionally disgusting, and hope that the new husband would eventually learn to be a little more tidy, if only for the sake of peace in the marriage.

As I was wandering about tidying the flat the other day,  pulling out socks from under the bed and boxers from under the chair in our bedroom, and then had to spray down the bathtub before actually having a shower, I realized that I wasn't really that bothered by it all. In fact, it's not even something I think twice about.

Let me assure you - this is not because I am particularly virtuous or easygoing. Oh no. I wish. Rather, I think it is a side effect of having grown up in a big family.

In a big family, you become used to being inconvenienced by others. Your space - if you have any - is  constantly infringed upon. Your clothing - if you have sisters - is frequently "borrowed," possibly never to be seen again. You become used to picking up after little ones who might be on the fifth outfit change of the day, because they have decided to be superman instead of a bear.

When you walk into the bathroom to take a shower, you might have to clear it of rubber ducks first. Or there might be vomity towels in there that need to be hauled to the washing machine, because they were thrown in the tub during the night by an exhausted parent who was to tired to do anything else, and too much needed by the vomiting child(ren).

You learn to deal with the messiness and chaos and inconvenience of living with others, and to simply take it in stride. If you didn't, you would go insane.

So, while I might be vaguely grossed out by the blanket of hair coating the bathtub, I just rinse it out. And while picking up dirty boxers is not my greatest joy in life, I don't like seeing them hanging around, so I chuck them in the laundry basket. Therefore, among the many, many (many) things we DO argue about, socks, boxers, and hairy tubs are not on that list.

Again - this is not because I am a particularly awesome and patient wife. No way. But acting in such a way is simply an extension of the skills I gained, having grown up surrounded by grubby, messy, inconvenient little people.

For that, I am supremely grateful.

Useful Gifts

A few weeks ago, my Spanish half was in New York for a business trip. It was completely last minute, he was gone for an entire week, I had wanted to go with him but the Home Office is still processing my residency and I couldn't......

So I requested a present. 

He travels a lot for work, and typically I would never think of, or expect, presents from his trips. But this time I just really needed one to get over the disappointment of not being in New York over fashion week. 

So, I told him. I told him, in black and white, that I was down in the dumps and really needed a present to lift my spirits.

He sent me a picture of  coffee mugs at the 911 Memorial site, and asked which colour I wanted. 

I asked if he was kidding me.

He said he was terrible at present buying, and was feeling overwhelmed when confronted with all the shops full of clothing and bags and shoes.

I told him I would not accept excuses, and we left it at that.

He arrived home on a bright Saturday morning, while I was at brunch with a friend. 

When I got home, he was sound asleep - not being able to sleep on planes - but there was a small box sitting on my desk, next to my laptop. 

I shivered in anticipation. He had done it. He had gotten me a gift! Was it perfume? A bracelet? Earrings?

I picked it up, was momentarily puzzled by the French labelling, flipped it around until I found some English...

And discovered that he had gotten me very expensive anti-aging skin serum.

Umm.....

What?

........WHAT?

Apparently, he told me cheerfully when he got up, he noticed it whilst walking through a department store. He saw it and remembered that he had started noticing wrinkles around my eyes when I smiled. He thought, he said with massive satisfaction, that a present was always best if it was also useful.

I stared at him, blankly, willing him to say something that would make me not want to disembowel him.

Fortunately, he wasn't finished.

He had, he said with immense satisfaction, taken a look at some lovely handbags, but on consideration remembered that I had a shelf full, and probably didn't need any more. He was lucky he had stumbled upon the skin-serum, because it seemed like the perfect thing.

You know when you open your mouth to say something, but your brain has short-circuited and nothing comes out?

It was probably best that this happened, at that precise moment in time. Thank the Good Lord above for that.

And it is also probably best that he rarely checks his credit card statements, and so probably will not notice the lovely pair of boots I bought very shortly after.

But if he does notice, I can just tell him that they are useful. They keep my legs warm during the brisk autumn weather, and allow me to wear my lovely dresses the whole year round without getting a chill. 

Now. Who could object to that?

Of Loos and Signet Rings

It is really interesting being a North American in London - I get to witness the weird social machinations of those around me, but am totally exempt from judgement of my own actions because I am so utterly foreign.

Well, I tell myself I am exempt. Whether that is true or not, I don't really know.

The first time I heard someone say "She is from a good family," I thought they meant her family was nice, or kind, or somehow excessively virtuous. And then I heard it again. And gradually I clued in that to be from a  "good family" actually means something here.

In North America you are more judged on what you have done with your life, than on where you come from. Here, where you come from is everything. Being from a good family means that your parents went to certain schools and then sent you there. It means that you have a specific type of accent, that you might wear a certain type of clothing in a certain way, and that you or your parents possibly belong to various societies that could go back eons in time.

You could be an absolutely loathsome human being who hasn't actually ever done anything for himself, but if you are from a good family that is what matters.

Here, it actually matters whether you say "loo"or "toilet;" "sofa" or "couch;" where you go on holiday; what your post-code is.

Once, talking to a friend, he mentioned that he and his boss would never be able to see eye to eye or relate in any real way. His boss had gone to Harrow, you see, and had a signet ring. He, on the other hand was from East London.

I nodded politely, while interiorly my brain tried to make sense of the situation. Signet ring? East London?

WHAT?

After three years of observation, I now know what that means, and even though these divisions continuously strike me as absurd, they aren't, because they define and limit each person's view of himself and his opportunities.

Where I am from, the man in ripped jeans with tousled hair could be a multi-millionaire. The woman who came from nothing and then built herself from the ground up is admired and looked up to. Your past is simply that - in the past. Your present and your future are what you create, and could be anything you dream up, as long as you work hard enough.

There is such a freedom that comes with that attitude - the attitude that says you aren't limited by what has happened to you, or where you are from; that if you take control of your own life and persevere, most things are possible.

I wouldn't even have realized that this type of thinking was "other," or even that it is a privilege to thinking this way, until I came here.

There is nothing like living a new country, to make you aware of those things you assume are universally understood.

What is London Like?

Yesterday I was Skyping with family, as is not my habit since, unfortunately, I am one of those people who forgets about everyone unless they are actually within a one hour travel radius or have Whatsapp which they use on a regular basis.

Grandma happened to be on the other end, confused about how she could see me from Calgary, and asked what living in London is like.

I didn't really have an answer, but I've been thinking about it ever since.

There is a lot I could say. There is the fact that you can enter a tube station at rush hour - hint: it feels like you are a sardine in a can - and there will be absolute silence. No one makes eye contact, no one speaks, and everyone has his head buried in a newspaper. Oh, how they love their newspapers and personal space.

There was one incident where I was standing at a busy corner, waiting for the light to change, in a rush, and next to someone equally stressed about the time, judging from the number of times he checked his watch.

After a few seconds of frustration, I turned to him as one does and said something sarcastic about the light not changing until I was dead and buried. He gasped in surprise, picked up his phone, and stared at it, as if trying to force me away by the intensity with which he was pretending I didn't exist.

Don't speak to strangers. Got it.

But that would be a one dimensional picture of London. What is London like?

Well, yes it is cloudy, and the picture is of terrible quality, but I am sitting here, in St. Katharine's Docks, in a cafe which only serves quiche, crepes, tea, and wine. The cafe is right next to some rather big boats, and I can't for the life of me figure out how they get onto the Thames. Are they moored here permanently? If so, why? If so, how?

I don't get it.

St. Katharine's Docks is right behind Tower Bridge, and very shortly I will walk across it in order to get to my flat, which is directly across the Thames from St. Paul's Cathedral. This is the view from our living room window. The rainbow is not a permanent fixture. 

And that is one of the strangest things about living in London. Historic buildings and streets are everywhere. How strange is it to give directions to one's flat "directly across from St. Paul's," or to arrange to meet someone next to the houses of Parliament, or to meet one's husband in Trafalgar Square because that is where his office is?

Once, I took a new route to my hairdressers, looked up and saw this:

My heart stopped. My heroine.

Another time I took the train to Winchester, to escape London for the day, walked to the Cathedral in the centre of the village, wandered through mostly looking up at the spectacular windows, looked down, and suddenly realized I was standing on Jane Austen's grave.

I often wonder if born and bred Londoners get the same jolts of shock and awe that I do when I wander through my day. 

And so, London is like that.

On the other hand, London is also like this: an hour ago I went to a flat viewing - because I was walking by and curious - in a new build along the Thames, and it was 1 million pounds (almost 2 million dollars) for 750 sq feet of space. Which, to be honest, is quite reasonable for the location. Plus, it is off plan, which means that once the building is BUILT...well just watch those prices sky rocket.

Just this minute, I received an email from an estate agent, informing me that the flat I was meant to view tomorrow, which was put on the market on Saturday was sold just today (Monday).

London is also like that.

And I love it. I love the quirky people, and the bustle, and the poshness and the grunginess and looking up to see Big Ben glowing in the distance. 

I'm Back!

February 2013 was the last time I wrote on this blog.

I'd say I was embarrassed at my apparent laziness, but a LOT has happened.

I moved to London, started grad school, planned a wedding, got married, and am now sitting in a cafe, drinking Earl Grey.

What is it like living in London?

Well, that's my next post.