Rehabilitating after my expaccident

Yes, there has been an unacceptable time lapse between the post of last and this one, but give a sister a break. I have been a globe-trotting (or at least western Europe-trotting) fool of late; I have been living out of several disorganized suitcases for going on two months; and I am officially paying for two homes, neither of which I live in. Somewhere in London there is a bed with my name on it (literally), but it requires me to wait for it in an empty flat for 8 hours, and I simply haven’t had the time. Plus, Alex’s room looks like a bomb went off and although he’s a peach and a half, I’m sure he’d like to wrangle some real estate back from my dirty clothes and countless “important papers” some time in the immediate future.

In short, things here are great. I’m not so much settling in physically, or financially for that matter, but I’m feeling great in all other important ways. No doubt – London is where I need to be right now for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that it’s just so exciting to be here. I had forgotten how much I just love big cities, and even though I have no idea where I am or what’s going on half the time, it’s nice to be a part of it all. The conquering of a city must be a patient, immersive process, and I get an amazing sense that every time I leave my house (or rather Alex’s house), every time I master a route, and every time I rely on an newly developed instinct (like looking the right way when crossing the street or glancing up just as the train pulls into my stop), I take another small step toward feeling like a real Londoner.

That said, I also feel like a brain trauma patient. It’s like I have suffered a dangerous fall—an Expaccident—and now suddenly I’m incapable of performing even the most rudimentary tasks. Things that seem second nature to other people are completely baffling to me; and when I ask for direction (which I don’t usually), people first laugh like I’m kidding, and when they realize I’m not, they look at me with a distinctive mix of pity and confusion that can probably be captured verbally with, “aww…poor, stupid American.”

When the time came to move overseas, I was totally prepared for the big things (the trouble with opening a bank account, the lack of customer service, the no power in the bathroom, NHS, no tipping, washing machines in the kitchen) —and I even got used to the medium-sized things from coming here so often (the multiple toilet-flushing buttons, the benefits of the Oyster Card, and the staggering politeness of the vast majority of people in London). But it’s the little things that get me, that make me feel that not only am I new to town, but I might be new to planet Earth. Why are there countless ways to write a telephone number? Why do some have area codes and some don’t? Why can’t you hail a cab in Scotland? Why do you have to turn two knobs to pre-heat an oven? Why oh why do some showers require power?

However, there is a good side to this situation. Suddenly, I’m a really high-achiever. I actually call Alex (lucky bastard) and tell him, “I just figured out how to dial a phone!” or “I turned on the oven all by myself!” He tells me he’s proud and I’m special, and we celebrate my ability to overcome life’s little challenges. With such low expectations of my basic motor skills, I feel like every day that I emerge from alive and functioning is a victory not only for me, but for others afflicted with my condition.

But enough about that. I have had many adventures lately and am eager to share them all. Unfortunately, I have not yet figured out how to retrieve pictures off my camera (again, something that was easy for me to do in the U.S., but has somehow become a major obstacle 3,000 miles away) but as soon as I do, I promise I will show:

1. My trip to the beautiful Isle of Arran…home to stunning scenery; 4,999 delightful people and one evil bed and breakfast owner; and countless midges (mosquito-like bugs) who are all a little fatter this week courtesy of their violent feasting on my flesh.

2. My trip to the charming beach town of Noordwjk, Holland and Haarlem, Holland, where I witnessed my first public four-man urinal.

3. My first brush with fame…the lead singer of REO Speedwagon in the BA departures lounge in Heathrow. Yes, it counts.

4. My flat. I will take pics once I’m settled in too, but I have some of it empty that will hopefully give a sense of where I’ll be living for the next year.

This weekend should prove very fulfilling in terms of getting physically settled in. Fingers crossed. More soon, I promise. Kisses to you all.