Keira, is that you, mate?

It is with a tremendous sigh of relief that I announce "I have a new, wonderful home."  After many trials and tribulations, I am finally settled into my new place. I am in the West End, which I have come to find is a very posh neighborhood. I like to describe it as a mix between the Village and SoHo. On the weekends mums walk around with their prams and shoppers canoodle at cafes while fashionistas shop themselves into a near coma (a far cry from the drug-dealing neighborhood I formerly occupied). 

You cannot imagine the angst that accompanied selecting this flat as I had NO idea where to live in this massive city. But I knew I made the right decision when one of the young, trendy girls in the office exclaimed, "Wow! You live in the West End at St. Christopher's Place?"  I do have to confess that before I signed the lease, I stopped at a boutique next-door to my flat and approached the hip salesgirls and asked them, "Would you live here, alone and feel safe?" They looked at each other and laughed and proceeded to tell me that they'd looooove to live on this street (it's actually a cobblestone-like pedestrian plaza). So, I had conducted my own market research and felt good with the results (N of 2).

Before I finish bragging (I feel I deserve if after the HELL I went through to get here), I'd like to say that Laurel told me she met Keira Knightley at my local grocery store; apparently she and Madonna shop there. I guess I have a knack for picking just the right hood...

Okay, now I'll tell you that it's a three flight walk up (which is technically four because these Brits have Ground, 1, 2, 3, etc), the world's smallest water heater and I can't close the bedroom door because the bed is in the way. Feel better now? 

Americans Aren't So Bad...

So, you have been very patient waiting to hear about the CD and how we get along. I knew very little about Adrian when I departed for London, except that he was new to the office, extremely creative and highly sought after in the industry. After my brief introduction, (see previous post) I feared we would not be friends but I was still hopeful to learn a lot from him.

We finally chatted on my second day, I could tell he was being cautious and wasn't quite sure he liked this whole exchange thing. I could also tell that my sex and my nationality put me into question. There was nothing I could do except win him over with my charm -- ha!

Adrian has turned out to be wonderful. He's gruff on the outside but a teddy bear on the inside. He's shown me some great work that he has created and we've discussed our thoughts on pharmaceautical advertising in general. He respects my expertise and asks my opinion about various things. Sharing the fishbowl isn't so bad. I even forgive that he is a smoker and I forgive the fact that he blatantly told me, "London is an awful place to live." Me= Look of horror and shock. Not what a single gal who has never lived in a city wants to hear from a native Englishman. My wide-eyed appearance made him recant. "Well, it's fine for single people. But once you get married and have kids..." He couldn't help himself, "But it is bloody violent." That's Adrian, he says what he believes and I like that in a person. Adrian and I are actually quite a bit alike; skeptical, hot-headed, full of dry humor and quick to laugh (when it's deserved, of course). After getting off the phone one day after a colorful conversation he said, "I hope I don't swear too much for you." I appreciated his caring but I assured him that if anyone could outswear him, it may be me. He chuckled and I said,"I'm not fucking kidding." That caused him to laugh even harder.

At the end of my second Friday here, I gathered my belongings to leave for the weekend and Adrian said, "I'm really glad you are here, Jennifer. You've changed my mind about Americans. I can see there are some good ones." I laughed and assured him that not all Americans were like me.

I think things are going to be okay at work and I feel proud representin' America and changin' minds, one Brit at a time.

Fondly,

The Temporary European

Off My Mat Please!

Although my yoga practice has suffered in the past two years due to my dissertation completion and an insane work schedule, I respect the practice and the principles for which it stands for. I would assume that most who practice yoga do the same as honor and respect are inherently part of yoga.  Dishonoring the yoga studio (ie walking in with shoes on, talking during class) is like swearing in church, seriously. So, let me tell you about my first and only yoga class in London. 

Imagine, if you will, a large, square room with a peaked ceiling  spotted with four symmetrical sky lights.  There is only one door and opposite that door is a wall of shelves that holds all the yoga paraphernalia (blocks, bolsters, straps), and the two remaining walls are mirrored. The room is packed with mostly women who are oddly dressed in tight pants and t-shirts and some half-naked; due to the configuration of the room, I sit in the back near the wall with shelving. I spread my mat out and begin to concentrate on my breathing and assume the typical cross-legged yogi pose. Women keep streaming into the room rushing toward me and my mat, and I soon realize sitting near the shelves was a huge mistake. Not only can't I concentrate but these bloody Brits are stepping on my mat with their bare, sweaty, unpedicured feet (I'll blog soon about the lack of beauty treatments here in London)! Now, I know we citizens of the good, old US of A are germaphobes, but anyone with any honor or respect would NEVER step on someone else's yoga mat. Good god, I would have to put my face on that mat later in the class (I didn't which resulted in a minor strain in my back as I executed a pose incorrectly so my face remained raised).  

After everyone, all 25 of us, settled into the room that was probably meant to hold 15, I tried to focus on my breathing and the postures but the yoga instructor -- a woman of about 55, in fabulous shape -- would not stop talking. She blathered on about breathing through the pain and how she hated her first yoga class so many years ago and look at her now, she's a yogi.  She did not count for us and insisted on  maintaining the same amount of breathes for each side of each posture. Who the hell could do that with all her babble and reminiscing? It was becoming clear why my classmates had no respect for my mat or their studio... While in mat poses, I also spotted strands of hair, dust and other pieces of dirt on the floor, and I cringed every time any piece of my body went beyond the boundaries of my defiled mat. 

Remember those four skylights I mentioned earlier, well they allowed the sun to pour into the room and it quickly became hotter than Hades and I had flashbacks of my one bikram yoga (hot yoga) experience and prayed to any deity available that this class would be over soon. Let me remind you that I paid £10 for this class and several times I almost stomped out and demanded my money back. Not wanting to be the Terrible American keeps me and my temper at bay here in England...not sure if that's for the good or the bad.

I never wanted to rush through savasana (corpse pose) more in my life. The obligatory Ohm and Namastey and I was out of there, never to return. I now know why there are so few yoga studios here in London; I don't think this bustling city is ready for the inner peace and interconnectivity which yoga stands for; as for me and my mat, we will practice at the flat with the gentle reminders of a DVD I was right in packing.

Namastey to you, friends and family -- honor and respect others, and their mats! 

The Temporary European

Nodding, Nicknames and Nerves

I'm still settling the flat issue so let me take this time to tell you a little about my first day at the office. 

As I walked to the office the first day, I wondered what my new colleagues would be like. I haven't had a first day in nearly 10 years! After having spent four days in unfriendly London and having a bit of a hard time understanding our fellow English speakers, I feared a lot of uncomfortable moments. I perfected my knowing head nod and friendly smile hoping both could get me through the moments of "What the hell did she/he say?"  

Once in the office I saw the open seating plan (AKA no offices except four senior management fishbowls) and I cringed just a tiny bit but then reminded myself not to be a spoiled American. I was greeted by the friendly creative teams and was introduced to my "buddy" Lucretia, a lovely British woman who works in the account services department. After being introduced to many, whose names I'm only beginning to remember, I was ushered to my office -- yes, an office! I would be sharing a fishbowl with the Creative Director himself(!) and we would be facing one another. Glorious. I hadn't met the bloke yet and I could only hope he was kind, talked slowly and would like me.

In the distance, I heard an American accent and I had hope that there was someone I could bond with. Her name is Laurel and she originally hails from San Francisco and I love her in a way that you can only appreciate when you've been away from Americans for a long enough amount of time to realize that you love America and Americans, no matter all our bad manners and historical faux pas. Insert the tune to "God Bless America" here and take a moment to pause and love the Pilgrims despite all their nasty burning of witches and banning of dancing. 

As I sat in the fishbowl waiting for the Creative Director to arrive, I tried to look busy and interesting; hard to achieve at the same time. A few folks popped in and said hello and asked questions -- the knowing head nod and friendly smile were applied successfully -- and I hoped I could soon master the English language. Hey, I'm a Doctor of the English language, right? Well, actually I'm a Doctor of letters so I just have to be fluent in English writing.  While pondering the history of the English language, Laurel came in with another colleague and after we were introduced Laurel asks, "Do you want to know our nickname for you?" I thought, "Do I?" But I said, "Sure..." Imagine my surprise and relief when in unison they said, "JRo!"  I was so relieved it wasn't something like Exchange Girl or Writer Girl. I told them I was used to that one and they seemed disappointed they hadn't come up with it on their own. The whole exchange made me feel more at home and I knew at the least, these people were fun and humorous. I know, I know, this is the home of Benny Hill but there were no women in their underwear being chased in the halls by an old man so how could I know straight away?

And then finally, Adrian arrived. He seemed surprised to see me in his office and said something like, "'Ello Jennifer. So you're here.  Right. I'm bloody late today and have a lot of fucking meetings. I'll see you later then?" All I could do was nod and smile as I thought, "Oh good God! What have I gotten myself into?"

Stiff upper lip my friends, stiff upper lip... To see how my relationship with Adrian has developed, check back in soon.  It's only fair that you experience the same anticipation that I felt on those first few days... so, until we meet again. 

Forever yours,

The Temporary European

Just the beginning

Typically, it is a good idea to start a blog such as this at the very beginning of the journey but I'm not typical and quite honestly, it took some pestering for me to finally decide to take on this blogging thing! Before I get started, thanks to my dear friend Jenn who taught me all about blogging through her wonderful and touching blog, The Kamienski Chronicles, and thanks to my cousin Jackie for creating my new moniker "The Temporary European."  I so loved the name and the notion that I felt compelled to use it in some way -- thus, a blog is born!

You may wonder where I'm living during my 3 month stay here in London, and I'm wondering the same thing! It appears that my coming over three days prior to my office start date to acclimate was a complete waste; I've come to discover that the area where I'm staying is a bit shady after dark and I've requested to be moved. Before you start thinking, "The American Diva strikes again," let me list some important details that will assure you that my concerns are real and non-diva-related:

1) In a gated complex, I was woken up at 12:30 AM by the shouts of a Eastern European man at my flat door. "PAULA!" he stated sternly as he banged on the door. At least he was kind enough to leave when I assured him through the closed door, that no Paula lived here

2) None of my native London colleagues knew where the heck I was staying (never a good sign)

3) I witnessed a drug deal at 10:30 PM directly outside my complex door

4) When the Global Creative Director of my company (translated = Big Wig), found out where I was staying he shouted through the phone, "Get her the bloody hell out of there!"  

Now let me interrupt this by saying, until number 4 occurred, I was keeping a stiff upper lip (very British of me) and not mentioning 1 & 3 to my London colleagues -- after all, I did not want to be deemed the American Diva.(I'll get into their nickname for me in a later blog...) Never mind that I go to bed at night with a chair propped under the doorknob and don't open my beautiful 9 foot windows due to the scaffolding that calls out to intruders throughout the night, I was not going to make a fuss!

So, here I am at day 12 of this adventure and I am  unsure of where I'll be living in the next week and dreading learning a new neighborhood while in the midst of trying to wow my British colleagues with all my spectacular writing and strategy skills!

I will keep you updated on my progress but in the meanwhile, please pray for my safety, sanity and creative brilliance, as all are sure to be in a state of flux until I find a new place to rest my head in jolly old England.