I apologize for the long hiatus, friends. The last couple weeks have been a shit storm;  Kevin Smith-like in nature.

In late July, I found out I was being transferred to London by my job.

By early August, I was here, fresh off the plane like an eager American rube ready to find the first single man with decent teeth, foreskin, good hygiene and a manor home. I moved from my beloved Astoria apartment of four years in just two weeks—said adieu to many dear friends, and parted with most of my crap; which consisted off way too many clothes, books, movies, and differing types of tea.

I found a charming flat in the posh end of Notting Hill; easily the nicest place I’ve ever lived and by far the most expensive.

I went to Paris on the Eurostar with my Mom, am pretty sure I caught a bad strain of swineflu on said train, suffered trashy night clubs in Shoreditch with American friends on Holiday, made some bad decisions, ate fantastic curry.

August was a good month. Scary, but full of promise. As promising as moonlight in a martini. (Moonstruck quote I can’t take credit for. Thanks, John Patrick Shanley.)

Work issues complicated things and back stateside was this Bridget McJones for five weeks of melancholy and resentment.

Only good things that came from the five weeks of limbo was catching a dear friend’s play and a dear friend’s nuptials back in New Amsterdam. Everything else from mid September to mid October can go into the internal file of “bad weeks/bad behavior/drunk in parents’ basement yelling about socialism.”

All that kvetching off my chest, I got back to Blighty last week and wanted to share some observations as an ex-pat that have been surprising to me.

1. Americans living and working in London are EVERYWHERE.

Maybe it’s my neighborhood, but everywhere I go I hear accents like mine and it’s comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Like eating mushrooms and have your dog speak to you.

It also brings to mind the old WWII saying the Brits had for us Yanks:

“Oversexed, overpaid, and over here.”

2. London cab drivers are the best cab drivers in the world.

Firstly, they know how to get anywhere. Which is impressive in a city where locals get lost on the confusing, narrow, medieval streets. Apparently, they have to pass some psychotic street/directions test which is like taking the LSAT to become certified to drive a PT Cruiser, all day.

Secondly, they’re extremely friendly and English is their first language. Call me a xenophobe, and believe me, I’ve been called worst, but it’s refreshing to get into a cab fall down drunk and have an intelligent, polite conversation about Obama or Gordon Brown or the cabbie’s last trip to Florida with the missus.

3. British TV is really limited

Almost 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, these are the shows you can find on UK basic TV.

a) Cooking shows

b) House flipping shows, home improvement, antiques roadshow et al

c) documentaries

d) wacky reality TV

On the five free channels I get in my flat, I can consistently watch a cooking show, a house selling/improving/bargain basement finding show with annoyingly perky presenters and equally dour real folk, a documentary on being obese in Sheffield, addicted to smack and about to bear a third child at the age of 20, or Scary Spice moving to the midlands with a poor family trying to help them get off the dole and become functioning members of society.

With the exception of CSI: Miami (Where’s Joel McHale, when you need him?), Murder, She Wrote (IT’S ON EFFING EVERYDAY)Friends repeats (kill me), Ugly Betty (euthanize me), True Blood Season 1 (a haven from the storm), or The Simpsons (always safe), I get very little variety aside from the occasional movie. This past week included Cutthroat Island, Superman II, The Rugrats Movie, and Blade II. And that Matthew Broderick movie from the 80’s with the monkeys.

I may have to break down and get cable soon.

4. The London Underground smells like pee and gives you black boogers

You get spoiled in NYC with air conditioned trains, only going down or up one level, and consistent service unless you live in Brooklyn.

In London, while they have a much more organized, easy-to-transfer anywhere system, the trains are constantly not running. And you go into the bowels of the earth (hence the black bogeys) and most trains are stuffy and smell like pee. I blame the pee smell not on bums, but on unwashed genitals.

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That being said, it’s great to be back. I love cinemas where people don’t talk, free museums, easy and affordable access to the rest of Europe and mild autumn/winter weather where it doesn’t get much colder than 50 degrees fahrenheit, ever.

I hope there is still time to meet my very own Mr. Darcy and start talking with a fake British accent, like Madonna.

Cheers!

PS. Discussed this with a fellow ex-pat last weekend…no Americans here speak with a British accent. Idioms change, but not pronunciations. You can take the girl out of Northeast Ohio, but you can’t take the Ohio out of the girl. Shame on you, Madge!

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