London Calling...

London vs. Paris, a comparison:
Language: English vs. French. In terms of efficiency, London takes the cake. BUT French= much prettier, and Frenchies tend to be more bilingual. Also handy.
Verdict: Tie.

Food: Fish and chips vs. Quiche. (Keep in mind that the "fish" is cod. And the "chips" are fries.) Verdict: Paris.

Style: Ok, so all good designers come from Paris then return every spring and fall for fashion weeks. And Londoners can’t seem to match to save their lives. That said, LONDON IS FULL OF PEOPLE WHO DRESS LIKE ROCKSTARS. Since fashion is really a matter of personal taste, I suppose I should leave it up to you.
But I am the one writing this, so forget it.
Verdict: London.

Music: The Clash. Queen (I think). Lost Prophets (from somewhere in their country). Vs. Rufus Wainwright. London outnumbers Paris, BUT they also spawned James Blunt. Minus 5000 for London.
Verdict: Paris wins by a little.

Public Transportation: London= cleaner. Paris= more efficient, widespread. Also London costs 3Pounds a ride, or about $6.
Verdict: Paris.

Museums: In London are free. What? AND they have 6story slides in the Tate Modern right now, for free. Paris ones are free for me, though, since I study it.
Verdict: Tie.

Prices of everything: Paris wins. No matter what, Paris wins. I refuse to deign to elaborate on this one. Just know this: there is 52 US cents to a British Pound. (And 64 Euro cents to a British pound, making it terribly, prohibitively expensive.)

Driving: Now, I admire the British for sticking to their guns about this left-handed thing. I am left-handed, and it probably would have been easier for me to learn to drive there than in the US. And they won’t let themselves be swayed, so that is cool. But honestly, how does anyone ever leave their country to move anywhere else? NO one else in the world drives on the left (with the possible exception of Australia, which I am not sure about but which was a colony until about 3 years ago, so who knows.) So how do they ever leave their country? Paris drivers are crazy, but at least they are crazy on the right side of the road.
Verdict: Paris, but London takes points for being unique.

Kitsch factor: London. This is a good thing in my book, though. Where else can you buy a furry pink toilet seat cover with a photo of David Hasselhoff in the middle of it? And all the signs say "way out" instead of "exit" which is pretty cool.

P.S. A Queen’s guard soldier outfit weighs 3stone. That is 45 pounds.

Come to London, tonight...
Up until this weekend, all Englishmen to me were Peter O’Toole. All Englishwomen were Julie Andrews. Now I have learned that all Englishmen over 40 are Peter O’Toole, but all younger than him are just straightup rockstars.

I woke up today in London...
I spent the weekend in London at a friend’s flat... so fun. After Paris, definitely my favorite European city. Friday we went to Westminster Abbey, walked past Parliament (which looks just like in Monet’s paintings because, cliche though it may be, London IS that foggy) checked out Big Ben (which I expected Peter Pan to fly around the corner of any minute), saw the London Eye (more like London EyeSORE, but people said that about the Eiffel Tower too, so whatever), wandered in the Tate Modern for about 5 minutes, toured the new Globe, and basically just painted the town red. Oh, and it got dark at 300. Literally. Sunset there is at 345pm. It was cloudy, though, so it was pretty much pitch black at 245pm. It’s not supposed to be that way. Anywhere. I mean, I guess it IS supposed to be that way in London, it just is really... odd.

Follow tourists to Trafalgar Square...
Top 5 Favorite Places in the World:
1. Medici Fountain, Paris, France.
2. Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom, Orlando, Florida, USA.
3. Top of Wolf Pen, Irvine, Kentucky, USA.
4. Camden Market, London, England.
5. Tie: The Majestic Diner, Atlanta, Georgia, USA. And Marienbrucke, Fussen, Germany. And Forestville Farmhouse, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.
I guess that means it’s really my top 7 favorite places, but I don’t care.

Street where the riches of ages are sold...
Anyway, we spent most of Saturday at Camden Market, which is this astoundingly amazing place where rockstars go to meet each other, buy their clothing, and listen to rockstar staples, like THE CLASH and Bob Marley and The Sex Pistols and lots of other bands who are Truly Very Legendary. So I am wandering through this part called Camden Lock, because it is on a lock in the Camden Canal or something, I don’t really know, and this guy is standing in his stall yelling something about how his bracelets are only 98shillings or some kind of British nonsense, and then the song switches from "Eleanor Rigby" to the opening notes of "All You Need Is Love" and the guy stops midsentence and pronounces for all of us, "We should all stop and listen to the words of THIS song!" then sits down and doesn’t talk again until the song is finished, I suppose as a memorial to his previously hippie days, because this guy was probably Pete himself, the guy the Beatles kicked out in favor of the much uglier Ringo.

Then I keep walking and pass this very Peter-O’Toole-ish man sitting at his booth of high quality sterling silver jewelry, his glasses down his nose where only very smart people wear them, and without looking up from his paper, he says to the guy in the booth next to him, "Oh, Mack?"
Mack grunts in response. My booth owner continues. Apparently Mack’s grunts are a generally accepted form of communication. "Mack, as a matter of interest, why [only he pronounces it "woi"] ‘ave you written ‘macaroni’ across the top of the page?" At which point I started laughing uncontrollably at the gravity with which Mack’s friend had asked the question. Mack saw me laughing and scowled, and grunted in a menacing way. His friend looked up and saw me and said, "Oh, don’t mind him, I think I might have to have him lesioned. He’s gone mad, this time I’m sure of it." And I am trying to compose myself when Mack pipes up with "I wrote it, not that it’s any of your business since that is MY paper you’re reading, because I ‘ad to count the letters for the puzzle. See, right ‘ere it says ‘tubular pasta’ [which he pronounced "tubula past-a" like to rhyme with nasa.] and I thought that might be it." Mack’s friend looks at Mack suspiciously, then back at me before stage-whispering conspiratorially to me, "Last time I checked, love, there was no ‘t’ in ‘macaroni’." To which I suggested "manicotti?" and finished the puzzle for Mack, much to his annoyance.

From there I found a stall that sold shirts that said things like "tea, biscuits, and death metal" and "Let’s Hunt James Blunt" and lots of other clever things, so I stopped to look at them, and the guy comes back to the booth and asks "you all right, then?" and I thought I must have looked sad or something, but apparently that is just the way the Brits ask if they can help you. But now I am not used to this being able to communicate with shop owners/t-shirt makers thing, so to demonstrate my proficiency in the chap’s native tongue, I quite accidentally struck up a conversation. We talked for nearly half an hour, about t-shirt sizes, and his inspiration for making them (the one I bought was inspired when lightning struck his brain in the form of an Eagles of Death Metal album), and he was shocked when he found out I live in France.
"But you’re American, aren’t you? Either that or you have a great accent for being French!"
"Yeah, no, I am American. My French accent is not nearly that good."
"But you are American and you live in Paris? I thought the Americans hated the French, or is that a myth?"
"Well," I responded, "I thought the British rather liked James Blunt, so I guess we are both mistaken."
"Oh, I hate that fellow. He’s given our whole country a bad name, now everyone thinks we sing like raspy soppy idiots with rosy cheeks. I suppose some people like him here, but no one with any taste."
It was amazing. And apparently John Cusack has bought his shirts before. Multiple times. If I had lots of pounds, I would have bought more, because they were amazing, but for now, I will have to settle for one.

Then I keep walking through the market and pass this girl who says to her boyfriend in this terribly Robin Leech-esque accent, "Well, DUH, she HAD to buy it because everyone needs a pole-dancing skirt when they leave home to go to University!" Only in London, I suppose.

Yeah, if I had a job that would somehow pay for me to live in London (yeah right, I don’t think anyone in London has a job like that) I could totally live there. Though it’s such a different vibe than being "on the continent," which seems more... I don’t know, more different from the US. Not that London is like the US... I suppose it is more like it than Paris, definitely more like it than most of the continent, but if you told them that I think they would be terribly offended. It’s just that I think moving there would be way less... traumatic? than moving to, like, oh, say, Paris, France.

Sidenote: I found a shoe store in Chinatown on Thursday and bought new perserk boots in brown– completely a legit purchase, not only were they cheap, but I desperately needed them. Because before you think it is impossible to "need" boots, keep in mind that all my jeans drag the ground because I can’t dry them, and it rains here now more or less every other day or something, and wandering with wet jeans = the worst feeling in the world. Boots are the remedy to that and all the world’s problems, I think, because the heel keeps the jeans from dragging, if they get splashed anyway, the tall boot part is encasing your leg, AND the tall part keeps one’s calf much warmer than jeans alone...
Hot.

Obsession of the moment, via Julia from Annie: http://radio.blog.com
For the expat on the run, this is amazing. I don’t know how it is legal, but for now it is, so I am not complaining!

Time for bed in the wintertime through the fall,
Blair Poppins