Tag Archives: Alan

I’m pretty sure this is NOT what he signed up for.

12 Jun

While Alan’s stuck in London for work, he’s encouraged me to use his community’s pool. And since it’s been hovering around 100 degrees and humid, I’ve taken him up on the offer. Repeatedly.

Yesterday, after swimming my mile, it was so hot that I just stood in the shallow end and read 100 pages of a book.

Hell, it’s been so hot that the lifeguard himself stands in the pool half the time. I can’t blame him.

Speaking of the lifeguard, I gave Alan a full report on him the other day so he would know what he was missing. (Each year the lifeguard is a kid from some Eastern European country here as part a summer exchange program. I’m sure they envision Baywatch and are mildly disappointed to realize they’ll be assigned to a pool in suburban Virginia with decidedly American waist-lines.)

This year’s lifeguard, whom we’ll call Grigor, is a bit clumsy. Or he has bad luck. Either way, I’ve had a lot of updates for Alan.

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I say “Pie,” you say “Pizza,” and we’ll see who finishes hungry.

27 May

Apparently, street food is all the rage. As with most trends, I’m late hopping on the bandwagon. It reminds me of the year I asked for a Cabbage Patch Doll for Christmas months after the cool kids had requested theirs, leaving me holding a homemade “Cabbage Patch” with a head made from stuffed nylons. True story. In retrospect, I now realize my doll was more awesome.

Back to food trucks. I’ve known of the Lobster truck, with its butter-soaked lobster rolls ($15), for at least a year. Of course, I haven’t actually tried one yet, because I’m so cheap I can’t justify a double-digit lunch, but I’ve at least seen it before. Maybe if I ever have cause to celebrate, I’ll go bananas and find a friend to split a roll with me. Because I’m just that wild!

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I didn’t know “amusé bouche” meant “loud mouth.”

14 May

Alan’s birthday is coming up, so we decided to celebrate it properly while we were in London. As a foodie (and Food Network addict), he gets a semi-chubb for Chef Gordon Ramsay, so it was on his bucket list to eat at one of Ramsay’s restaurants. Thus, Alan made a reservation for us to have lunch at Claridge’s, and I picked up the tab. That’s how birthdays work.

We both did the five-course tasting menu, paired with wine flights for 55 pounds each. I’ll leave the nuanced food descriptions to Alan since he took copious notes (more on that shortly), and instead just share a couple quick observations.

But first, in case you don’t know who Gordon Ramsay is, this flowchart of his show (Hell’s Kitchen) created by Cracked.com should help serve as a primer:

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I’ll take function over beauty any day. In a bathroom.

10 May

Since I’ve done a crap job explaining why my posts are coming to you live from England this week, let me back up: Alan is working on a case in the UK for at least a month, so I (being ever so spontaneous) decided to hop a flight and join him for a week.

He’s staying in a corporate apartment near Kings Cross, which is handy because it has daily housekeeping and laundry service. Sounds like a great perk, but we’re both kind of weird about housekeeping — we usually only remove the DND sign from the door if we need new towels, preferring privacy to having a stranger make the bed. But this trip, I keep lobbying to let them in because they stock the fridge with fresh milk for our tea.

The apartment itself is quite nice — it was remodeled in the last few months, so it has nice modern finishes and a gorgeous bathroom. BUT (and this is a pretty big but, which is why I capitalized it): a pretty bathroom is not necessarily a practical bathroom. Especially if more than one person is sharing the space.

Exhibit A: The Toilet

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The people around these parts sure are friendly…

9 May

Alan and I found the UK’s version of Atlantic City yesterday: Brighton.

Well, that’s not an entirely fair comparison. The carnival-like atmosphere surrounding Brighton Pier isn’t indicative of the entire town’s vibe. But when you’re down by the beach, let’s just say: you will not be lacking for opportunities to a) win a stuffed animal, b) have your weight guessed, or c) tour a haunted house.

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OK, OK. So that is largely limited to the shenanigans you find on Brighton Pier and the surrounding boardwalk area. Elsewhere, Brighton has a lot to offer to people who AREN’T interested in having their weight guessed by a man with a moustache: there is the North Laine (the old part of town bursting with twisting alleys of restaurants and shops), the Royal Pavilion (a vacation home built for the king in a style of architecture uniquely middle eastern) and the Victorian Gardens (self explanatory).

So all of that explains why Alan and I ventured to Brighton yesterday for a little “beach” exploration while we’re on vacation. What that *doesn’t* explain is our first interaction in the town of Brighton, which took place at a pub called the Camelford Arms.

It was a sweet pub with a friendly bartender, but it wasn’t terribly busy when we arrived. In fact, other than one gentleman who say reading a paper by the fireplace, we had it to ourselves. Braced with a couple pints, we sat at a table off to the side to create a loose plan for the day.

One of our objectives was to find the Brighton Festival, an arts festival running the entire month of May, but we couldn’t find it on our map. “Maybe I should just ask the bartender,” Alan suggested.

As he said that, I glanced up at the bartender. And realized that the place had gotten somewhat busier while we were downing our pints. “I mean, he was exceptionally friendly,” Alan continued.

A lightbulb went off in my mind. “Alan,” I interrupted. “I think this place is Brighton’s equivalent of Stetsons.” I looked at him meaningfully, hoping he would connect the dots leading back to the gay bar on my block back in DC.

“Stetsons?” he asked, clearly NOT getting my subtle reference.

“Stetsons,” I reiterated. Then, becoming a bit impatient, said, “Have you noticed that I am the only woman in here?”

Ahhhh. I could see him processing what I had said, then the dawning realization as all the signs started to blink at him… the uber-friendly bartender, the all-male clientele, the prevalence of man purses, the first semblance of decent fashion we had seen in Brighton.

After we left, he asked what had tipped me off. “Probably the guy whose entire crotch was ripped out of his jeans. I just couldn’t see a straight man getting away with that look.”

Leave it to me… I travel 3,700 miles and manage to land in a neighborhood just like home.

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