What happens in London II

I was surprised that being stuck on the tube made me feel as sick as it did, though since then I have had a couple experiences of too much exposure to the cold English air making me feel flu-ish. One day, coming home from King's Cross (maybe I ought to avoid that station?) I decided it would be much easier to take a bus, and there was one nearby that would take me right to the end of the street I live on. I found the nearest bus stop, but it happened to be closed that weekend, and for some reason, the bus would not stop even when I hailed it from the temporary stop further down the street. I decided to keep walking, thinking the next stop couldn't be too far, but I must have taken a wrong turn--oh, if I had an iPhone!--because I saw no more stops for the correct bus number. Before I knew it, I had walked nearly all the way from King's Cross to the Thames. I eventually gave up and got on a bus--any bus--that would take me nearer to home. But tired, in heels, in the cold, that excusion made me sick for a day. I used to wonder, reading a Brontë or an Austen novel, why such fuss was made about not being outside too much in case the heroine became ill. Now I wonder if there is something in the English air!

The weather isn't all bad here. No one believes that I don't mind the rain and cold, but I was used to rain living in Houston, and the cold is nothing compared to Ohio. It almost never snows in London, it's so mild--but, as it happens, I was lucky enough to experience one of the rare snows a couple weeks ago. Various reports claimed that it was the most snow London had seen for 20 years, or even for 40. It was a once a generation event, certainly. The first night we had a covering, all the twenty-something people in the neighborhood were out in the streets, making snowmen and throwing snowballs. The day following, Monday, saw a city that almost could not operate at all. Since snow is so rare, the city doesn't own many plows or salting equipment. None of the buses ran, few of the trains, and most of the workers couldn't make it in. I didn't even try.

The Dickensian view from my window:

I'll end with a couple fun things I've done recently. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine had a 'fancy dress' birthday party. All we did was go to a bar for drinks, but to liven it up, she asked that we all dress like characters in a film noir movie. It seems like this 'fancy dress party' thing is popular here--although I've heard that it is considered an American thing, I think that must be because Halloween is so much bigger in the States. I seem to have tried harder than anyone else to fit the part--I had new long black gloves that were my grandmother's that I'd been looking for an excuse to wear, and enough spare time that afternoon to wonder whether YouTube had tutorials for 1940s hairstyles (it did).



More recently, Ollie invited me to come to a night of theatrical performances at a bar in Camden (yes, everything here seems to happen in a bar). It was mostly Cambridge graduates now in London and included one act plays, musicians, a dance piece, and, what I particularly wanted to see, the puppet play "Trouble" that Ollie wrote, directed, and acted in. Everything (or mostly everything--but I'm trying not to be critical) was enjoyable, but Ollie's play was the highlight. I was impressed by the amount of talent, but more by the evidence of so many artists putting much, much time into preparation. The little room above the bar was absolutely packed, far above the expected turn-out of about ten. This is the type of thing I love about London. I'm sure a similar scene could have occured almost anywhere in the world, but this city seems to attract artists and creative thinkers. I feel at home.