I've been back in London and Europe about a week and a half. Couple of lovely days in London, couple of lovely days in Paris, couple of lovely days in Spain, with a few days on the road splashed intermittently in-between. The main difference I've noticed since being away from New York and arriving back in London? Instead of wanting to get all spiritual about everything and revel in the beauteous joy of life with large gesticulations and neverending self-indulgent monologues, I want to turn everything into a sarcastic joke that is so dry, even my chapped lips would be offended, while obnoxiously taking the mickey out of everyone. This may, in large part, be due to the fact that I'm, at present, on my 2nd vacation read -- "One Day" by David Nicholls, set in London, and told through the eyes of two young Londoners, resulting in pages of English slang, English self-deprecation and loathing, and English pop-culture. For example, when our hero, Dex, asks our heroine, Em, to tell him to make any cocktail in light of his newly-found flair for "mixology," she retorts in her London dryness, "half-lager top." She is by no means impressed, and if she is, well she'd be damned to Hell before showing him. Which brings me to a statement that is going to get me into lots of trouble, and perhaps make me a few enemies, but I'm going to say it anyway: Londoners hate to be happy. They hate it, and because of that, they hate seeing anyone else being happy. Lord help the poor sod who attempts to revel in his success -- he will probably be subjected to a Ricky Gervais style roasting. I didn't see any of Gervais' work on the most recent Golden Globe Awards, but I would have probably found it hilarious. It's what the Brits do, isn't it? Take the piss out of each other. Bring each other down a peg or two or ten. In fact, who can blame them for their "woe is me" attitude? When I arrived in London, I looked out my parents' car windows on the drive from Heathrow to their flat and the greyness weighed down on me. I felt annoyingly suffocated and claustrophobic. Then you have the customer service. Or, rather, LACK of customer service. I had an optician's appointment at 2:30pm, and by 2:45pm, I hadn't yet been seen. I politely but firmly said that I'd been waiting for 15 minutes and asked when I would be seen. Don't I have every right to know? Well. The receptionist retorted sharply that it would be another 5 to 10 minutes without an apology. I had to remind myself that I was not NY. Oh no, we are spoiled in NY, the land of obligatory 20% tips. Don't get me wrong -- I am so happy to be able to spend time with my family and and catch up with my London mates. The people I love the most don't actually live in NY. I adore "Little Britain," "Catherine Tate," and a good old banter. But, after a week and a half, I am looking forward to being back in a city where you can openly believe that your outrageous dream will come true without being made to feel like a fool.
Another thing I've noticed: I'm not as fat as I thought I would be after a week and a half of eating and not exercising. That's not to say that I'm not eager to get back into ballet class to get the flat tummy back, but I thought I'd be bigger by now. I've thought about why it might be that I haven't put on more weight, and I think it's due to the fact that the Europeans eat a diet that is far more fresh than New Yorkers. In Paris and Spain, I've primarily started out the day with eggs and toast for breakfast, had a big lunch of either meat or fish with accompanying veggies for lunch, then made do with some cheese and salami for a night-time snack. No Dunkin' Doughnuts breakfast sandwiches, Chipotle burrito-bowl lunches, or Chinatown dinners. I wouldn't say I've been eating less, but I've definitely been eating better quality food. Here's the thing that I keep trying to convince people about, but few people are ever convinced: it's not how much you eat, it's WHAT you eat. I honestly believe that eating 1200 calories a day of fresh meat and veg is better than eating 1000 calories a day of take-out. Now I've said all this, I do hope I don't get into ballet class and despise what I see in the mirror. This trip has reinforced my motto that cooking from fresh produce is most definitely as important as exercising. No one believes me. I hope the Americans get it right, eventually. They are so good at so much, but healthy eating is still something it seems the Europeans excel in.
I am proud to say that I now suffer from an identity crisis. Sometimes I make dry, abrasive remarks that perhaps Ricky Gervais would be proud of yet no one at work in New York gets. I intend to be funny, and come across as rude. Sometimes I am sickeningly melodramatic about my love and passion for my art and my struggles for my art, and my London friends roll their eyes and tell me to shut the f*ck up. Sometimes I fancy a slice from Ray's Famous pizza, and sometimes all I fancy is a green salad dressed in extra virgin olive oil. Sometimes I say, "I fancy" and sometimes I say "I want." And for all this, I feel lucky. Lucky to be both a Londoner and a New Yorker, to have a twin sister who lives in Paris, and parents who will soon live in on the Costa Brava. One day, I will hopefully add a European country to my "places that I have lived" list. Experiencing and appreciating different cultures is really a gift, and though I may poke fun at certain places and the people that come from those places, I poke with very much affection. It's not every week one gets to start Monday off at a New York dance call, celebrate mid-week by hosting a tea gathering in a London flat, then finish off the week by visiting a Medieval village in Carcassone.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few more days of Spanish food to cram in before it's back to chasing the New York dream. You can take the piss, if you like; Go on, do Mr. Gervais proud!
Author's Note: In response to this blog, a great friend of mine who is a Londoner wrote the following which I am inserting here because I think it is a brilliant response on many levels:
"So buddy ol' pal of a chinese Jew. Having read the new edition to the tale that is Celia Mei Rubin I have some comments to make, which is only proper is it not, After all I am a Londoner! My City is a tiny one, grey it is most of the time, ...mos def but you and I both know that when the sun shines on her, she aint half bad but that is not gonna happen in the middle of January! Not a chance in hell (such a shame!). A Waterloo sunset is quite a sight as is Hyde Park in all its glory! NY is an infectious place and given half a chance gets into your blood. America has been built on the premise of the American Dream, and therefore for someone who dreams as big and loud as you do it is definitely the place for you to be. I agree that sometimes it seems like londoners are not best placed to celebrate achievement, or to "big up" there people or generally to be happy, there are some proper miserable gits around, and a lot of them for some reason work in customer service (Tres Strange) but there are some of us that do as the great Python said and always "look on the bright side of life". That outrageous dream that you have, I also have and know that it will come true at some point, but they will happen on different sides of the globe. London will always have a place for the one that is Rubinsky, avec a flat tummy or not, Although Fat you will NEVER be dude! Enjoy the rest of your Coupe chase through europe xx and travel back safe to the land of the free. But not Free health care xx Peace out x"
copyright (c) 2010-2011 Celia Mei Rubin
